the weaver of the
story is just another
weaver to let this
night pass.
in those flowers the
weaver is neither bee
nor butterfly, just
a weaver, a spider
weaving a trap from the
slime of its mouth
making everything light
so light as you can
very well see when it
carries its body over
the trap house that
it just finished weaving.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem