starry night
in the grass you lie
in the bed of dew
I remember how I used to light up the fire
with my flame sticks
as I am doing now
but I can’t
I can hold now only salt in my eyes.
I climb upstairs to look from
the large windows
but with whom?
I live in a house without mirror,
and there is no place of it.
There is a thick mist in the hills,
a light drizzle
and I look at the tributaries that flow below.
I have kept my flame sticks so long
on the fold of my shirt collar,
I bring them on now.
I remember the warmth of your fingers,
your palm full of hope,
from suffering to suffering.
I turn around to look at the solitary tree
and the dark crow
with wings of metaphor.
I fling them towards the tree,
the crow picks them up and flies away.
like my messenger, my unsung hero.
