Translations Poem by RIC BASTASA

do not be lost in the forest of translations.
we live there once.
we live the word of the soothsayers
focusing on
crystal balls,
do not be amazed with those that we
do not really understand
those that we categorize as mysteries
we suspect after all that they do not exist
and now i can glean from your silence
as you fathom a deep void
inside my heart
dipping your tongue with something
that tastes bland
a little sour like rotten apple
you cannot hold me
perhaps only on the side
like the icing of a cake
at the middle
i am one kind of a doughnut
hole.

i am not slippery, neither am i thorny
(do not spell it as horny)
with all regret when you try to find the house
where i live
i am not a forest, i am not a tree even

i have the body of that whisper
what is it? you know it. i have no one and i am
nothing.