(translated by Lloyd King)
They hate the bird’s shadow on a white and full flushed cheek
The struggle of light and wind in a snow-cold room
They hate the fleshless arrow, the predictable flutter
When it’s time to say goodbye
The careful control of the flush and the smile on the pulsing cheek.
They love the clean blue, a wondering empty-gaze, the liar moon,
The curving dance of water on beaches.
Their radiant lively flesh beats with forest lore as, sensually
They skate over the waters and down to the sand
Tasting the bitter sweet freshness of their millennial juice.
Into the crackling blue they go, a blue untouched
By worm or sluggish footprint, where the ostrich egg
Stands forever, and the dancing rain drops patter
Into a blue history, the blue of a night not afraid of the day
Where a naked wind blows, driving on the empty clouds
As if they were somnolent camels,
To a place where bodies dream in the sensual grass,
Where coral absorbs the desperation of their ink and the sleepers
Hide their profiles in the snail’s skein and on the dying embers
Dwells the ghost of the dance.