the book is open
page 103 is waiting
to be read and to be
understood yet
you are into something
more that pleases your hands
it is the action now and not
the contemplation
it is the moving on with
what the lips shall utter
to make you understand what
is losing and what is regaining
what is it to decompose and
retake the composure
you do not read between the
lines of a fusing self
the book closes upon itself
showing you the face of the
trunk, solid, stoic, and
bland.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem