When we will be born, when there is no
urge for birth, at that moment of geometry
we will take time for night. Then the drums of
air will go on playing mild melodies. At the mystery
of the birth of the winter evening we feel urge
devoid of any route.
After growing up, we will see the field of flint-glass
where the sun grows up, and the ant-hills also do so;
the interim vacuum also flourishes after growing up.
After that when we will grow up more,
we will be able to know how to keep quiet
among conversations, and how to go on
talking in the midst of silence.
After knowing all these, I will come to you, and see
how the rivers spread sweet fragrance out in darkness,
how the hills keep themselves away
from the contagious reality of time,
and how birds engage themselves in psychological
lessons in an obsessed bout.
The vehicle of air suggests us to keep away from paths.
We go to enjoy moonlight on a hoodless carriage,
but the course of scene orders us differently-
lets go to the forest of barley, and to the echo of
the sand-clock; keep your attention alive; bury all
question marks under the sand of the river bank;
cast all your rippling waves to the origin, rather than
to production; oh, perplexed one, keep yourself awake
in the vastness of the field of ledgerless algebra
as a tree keeps standing for long ever after its death.
The domestic dove keeping awake in desolation
creates melody on the clarinet of my silence.