You,
I
thought,
were
the music of waterfalls
and
I loved you.
Sometimes
you
are like the still mountainside
and
I am like the mouse of a tale
digging
into a wall.
I
imagine water bursting from flesh
and
flowing like the falls.
Love,
I
thought
you
were the music of waterfalls
at
one time.
Those
days of mine,
let
them be gone,
please
let them not come back.
Closed
boxes
Yes
they come
like
morning's mist
when
the day is burning.
The
truth is torn
and
with the night's darkness
the
sounds vanish.
I
cannot say
who
spoke the words
or
who gave them birth,
but
they are always born
someone
bears them.
Usually
noises with similar faces and hopes
are
leaving. Sometimes they take a taxi,
carry
a letter.
Don't
ask or think how many days waited
for
the nights of noise here,
how
many nights looked for the next day.
With
the sunset and a new day's coming
I
sank and I rose; I woke and I slept
and
this is why, like Budhanilkantha,
I
will not turn, I won't change sides,
I
will sleep on my back.
That
way, at least, I will have a large sky
to
cover myself with.
I
have entered with the wheat like a worm.
What
is my fault?
And
what is the fault of the wheat
when
the grinder is crushing us together into dust.
Who
is this? Who is handling the projector,
why
isn't there a clear face on the screen.
I
am like an audience and after the voices
I
am singing of an ending.
The
noises that bring you to me
are
like patterns on the box in the kitchen
where
we keep pickles sometimes,
sometimes
puddings, sometimes curries
in
strange order; you must have tasted them all!
This
choice of food at different times of my life
is
too spicy, sometimes tastes good,
sometimes
is bitter.
I
cannot tell you who cooks all these voices,
uncountable
people and uncountable boxes
of
food are here
and
this is the time of boxes:
outside
everything is full, inside is hollow.
I
am like a tin opener
that
cuts closed cans.
I
am successful, the cans are opening
and
each time, yes each time,
these
sounds bring dreams
like
the mist.
These
sounds are like the sounds
of
cans of beer opening,
they
travel towards the sky with sighs.
Bitter,
nice, strange sounds spiral together,
yes,
I have listened to the leaves
stirred
by the wind:
these
trees think of themselves as pines
I
feel sorry for them.
They
are but leaves and they will fall
tomorrow
all
around us!
Travel,
age, and us
Why
have I used this life
as
a collateral
and
who has the papers
I
wish to ask him.
Whether
flowers are white
on
apricot trees,
whether
spring has come or not,
I
pick out white hair on my head
and
you put on glasses to cover
life's
patches.
At
one point in life,
with
a hungry belly
and
fulfilled eyes
you
look upon me.
Now
you do not ask me
how
the long days of summer are passed,
nor
do I ask
how
you pass the cold nights of a winter.
You
do not have anything to ask,
I
do not have anything to say.
How
many days and whole nights,
how
many rests and exertions
have
we shared with each other by now?
Between
all of these agreements and arguments
are
these not sorry lives?
For
what have we offered as collateral
our
lives is what I wish to ask.
See
how a narrow settlement
has
been created within us.
We
point out our boundaries and make walls.
I
was made a woman and now I am shrunk,
destruction
has spread into your manhood.
I
wish to ask why you put up as collateral your life.
How
many times were there
storm
waters on the road?
How
many times the moon glow?
How
many times did the sun burn?
How
many times did you take another's road?
Who
won? Who was defeated?
Like
the nine-shade seed of the mixed bean soup
did
life sprout on the road?
The
pleasant feelings that sprouted,
the
sad incidents that grew,
hollows
insides us echoed,
age
creating caves in us too.
The
wound is infected,
the
battle raging, half-complete.
I
wish to ask him today
why
he hung his life on the calendar
where
the day I will leave is written in red.
I
wish to know why he put as collateral
our
lives and for whom.
I
do not know why and I wish to ask of him
this
question.
