Forget the fly, my love, forget that he is
the bringer of death. I dream of
what I cannot have and how you
dear unequal part which my
flower gladdens and darkens
these words. Lose yourself, my
heart is soothed by the taste of green
tea and devotion; the river does
not stop going onward into the mist.
It is the cold, the etherlies, the slim
morning which I hold in the palm
of my hand.
The horizon is a young woman
who grips the battle of the sky;
whom we lead on into Eternity;
the skilled horseman moves
into the valley and breathes without
his words. That is what a writer
must do: he must be the horseman,
he must learn how to lose his words.
-Published in Burning Leaf Magazine