myth

Through shallow fields
of dwarf bamboo
clinging to our waist
we struggle.
We cannot soar through the sky
but must go on foot.

We go through the sea,
and through the water
clinging to our waists
we struggle.
Like watergrasses
on a broad river,
we hesitate in the sea.

The beach plover
does not fly over the beach
but follows the rocky strand.

Yamato Takeru

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of the open air dream

Jasmine bloom and butchered bull.
Endless paving. Map. Room. Harp. Dawn.
The girl feigns a jasmine bull
and the bull’s a bleeding sunset, bellowing.

If the sky were a tiny child,
half the jasmines’ night would be darkness,
the bull a blue arena without matadors,
and a heart at the foot of a column.

But the sky’s an elephant,
and jasmine bloodless water.
The girl’s a bough by night
on the huge dark paving.

Between the bull and the jasmine
either marble claws or people sleeping.
In the jasmine, an elephant and clouds
and in the bull the girl’s skeleton.

Federico Garcia Lorca

music of spheres

He was walking a frozen road
in his pocket iron keys were jingling
and with his pointed shoe absentmindedly
he kicked the cylinder
of an old can
which for a few seconds rolled its cold emptiness
wobbled for a while and stopped
under a sky studded with stars.

Jean Follain