Alongside time
words now walk beside words,
alongside the rails
love in cuckoo cries of sorrow.
"Is anyone there? Save us!" the word
races with the mail train.
Is there someone who
can unhesitatingly cast off
the body's cool desire
and wash away civilization's filth
with a single drop of grief-stricken tears?
The mail train rushes on. Alongside words
the color of terror lies sprawled on the tracks.
In seven-hued Behula's voice upon voice awakens
the melancholy forest.
To wash and wipe clean
can anyone bring forth some...some moments, where
in the sun's procession, stunned, torn away fall
forests of yellow leaves, lovers' restless beaks,
gestures, braids, word-songs?
Alongside words
the mail train races.
Pain screams, fire in the procession of tears.
Can someone give me a crane?