like hornbeam flowers let your poems hang down your body
snowbells are thinkers- their flowers are prone to dream
dumped ashes- a spider runs away from the rising dust
the cembalo piece's sound drops and lies... just like ashes
"how bitter dew on the grass are !" the nymphs tell to each
other
My heart beats
like a swell
of sparrows
Summer morning ~
mist is coming up
in the shape of a shoe
Lily,
sticking up in a vase ~
thunder's little brother!
Translation: Gilles Fabre