The Tear-Washed Blue Basket

Do you understand the meaning of rain-drunk evenings?
That twilight,
when dreams suddenly
find flesh in some invisible touch—
have you ever sought it out?

In light and shadow, amid rain, the weeping of clouds,
did you never search? Or were you searching all along?
You just wouldn't let me touch!
You trapped my gaze...within that very frame of your glasses!

Have you seen it at all?
The housewife's bewildered stare across the empty courtyard,
the meaning of those dried garlands, baskets full of jasmine...can you tell me?

Do you remember today...?
That afternoon when you touched the rosebud
and said, O friend, don't give me flowers,
the thorns pierce so deeply...
The meaning of dried garlands...and you...
this is mere luxury, alas!

Tell me, do you know
of the blue sorrow of morning glories,
of that tear-soaked blue basket?
You've only seen them dressed for offerings at prayer—
you never sought them out
at the farewell moment of immersion!

Etching the marks of wounds, falling away at the final hour
on the first of July,
halfway through, you interrupted, saying
Happy first of July!
What's so special about that, sir?
Oh my, it's a birthday...!
What of it?

In this hour of deathless sleep, then,
I've climbed another step!

At the morning glory's immersion...
in this courtyard of two eyes, I didn't find you after all!

Across your solitary courtyard...
at some auspicious moment of a birthday
some burnt pages of a diary...
leaning on the footfalls of their words...
look...you will surely come
to trace the footprints of the past!
And with that, some singed dreams will come
to touch you once again!

So many things arrive, only you don't come!
To keep my lonely moon company...
It's from you that I learned
how to be so terribly selfish!