The Silent Sun's Melody

 
The madman talks to the street every day.
Scolds trees, mosquitoes, flies, birds and flowers.
Seeing people, he flees in haste, hides his face in shame
somewhere behind cover, scratches his skin with wolf's claws.


Sometimes when noon descends, I see him sitting like stone
in the streaming sun; beside him lies…a sick dog.
In both their eyes I see gathered all the silence of the sky…
in their bodies the soundless tune of the sun.


Looking at him, sometimes I think he knows everything of this world,
now and then he hurls away baskets of light-scattered words,
then suddenly breaks into laughter, unnoticed!
People get frightened, seize him; beat him hard…so hard!


Yet his voice never rises high,
those who aren't dead do protest, after all…
everyone thinks! The madman still says nothing, just takes the beating.
The madman thinks something…spins himself, spins alone!


The madman talks to the street every day,
opens his secret heart to all the non-humans.