how many times,
must i die today?
my arms are weary,
my eyes are blurred.
how many soul trinkets,
must i bury in the sand...
only to walk away,
leaving no footprints?
i know nothing,
but what i hear and i taste.
i have no baggage,
and no epitaph.
this body but seed,
this spirit but rain...
i long for the wind,
the web, and the hill!
when bones become wings,
and forever tiny buds.
then night and day,
can no longer be strangers.
and i then become love,
as miracle becomes birth.
i hear the sound of the train,
yet no sight of tracks!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
love those old trains... and your poetry; great stuff.