after a day
i read what has been written
it shocks me sometimes to see
a different picture
bearing another interpretation
of these realities
it is like a tree bearing new surprises
of leaves and flowers
not on its proper season yet
June is usually the month of its fruits
there must be error for the month of May
something strikes me
things pop out, a word a phrase
losing their meanings
faded, and scratched
sometimes i ask, what is this?
this is not it, not me,
how come that it is here?
i drag it in a socket of the bone
to keep it
it protrudes as a fracture
a story with a plot of its own
a poem whose metaphor
anymore, i cannot decipher.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem