Kingfisher
Within me lives a kingfisher—
dives with ease into water's mirror.
How deep a river can become—
how swiftly forests burn to ember.
Days take flight in scatterings—
its cry threads through folds of wind,
like a blossom on a scarecrow’s chest—
melting beneath wax’s weight.
Somewhere, agarwood smolders—
a whistle perches on the lips of waves—
the festival has ended.
Inside, a hunger-bird remains—
a healing cremation ground.
From the kingfisher’s wings—
my twilight sinks.
Melody
A melody is heard— a song is heard,
there are birds in this world— there is a home.
In the garden, that dead flower— a day unclean.
Somewhere, that night comes to an end—
more alert, more intense.
Window
Someone has left behind a memory—
somewhere lies a bird, lost in the forest’s maze,
two festival-less, lifeless eyes—
gazing unblinking down the road of the world.
From afar, a song drifts in—
a fugitive wind left behind its flute.
Imagined sunlight circles the village—
beneath laughter hides that stoic stone.
Across both panes of the window
whose memory clings to the wind’s shawl?
Love
Fragrant blooms have blossomed—
with the tides and measures of the sea.
I too think I’ll stand—
as a quiet crisis.
Where do the birds go, where do they nest?
Perhaps you are gone—
and such a wind
comes to rest at my door.
You
Yesterday, I wondered— where were you?
Where lie those innocent signs, forgotten?
My feet still dance with echoes of a festival,
yet nowhere am I near to you.
If I try to call, forgetting the journey,
in whose name do the alleys of sound begin to sway?
Tomorrow, I will lie still in my room,
a shadow of ten thousand stars— become form.
The Bird
With feathers unfurled, the bird has flown—
toward the green forest’s hush.
My eyes, drowsy with a fading light,
as if ready to flee this city—
at any moment now.
Rain
From within a trance, the sounds fall—
the window frame rejoices in some quiet festival.
The wind is slowly sinking,
and I, too, dangle— a droplet of rain.
What if I fall?
What if, in calling for you,
I find fear standing at the door?
Perhaps the season of falling has passed—
yet still, in the winds of late autumn,
come down once more—
as untimely rain.
On a Half-Winter Morning
Last night, the green leaves fell—
bare, grieving branches like a blind man’s cane.
A fox heard the call meant for me
on a half-winter morning.
Where did the leaves fly, breaking through mist?
Into the bundles of warm clouds—
while autumn’s skeletal quilt
lies in wait, a quiet snare.
Where did the green leaves go?
The rootless wires stare down the road—
searching for a sign.
Rose
You have withered like the first rose—
no more epithets remain.
All seeking has nearly come to rest.
The distant sky is filled with dead stars,
and nameless clouds
keep rushing on—
I will unfold the pages of my notebook
and read you
once again.
Words
My eyes drift toward the clock—
from some far village,
the sound of words circles back,
and halts beside my ear.
Am I entranced?
Wrapped in a melody’s cover,
the field of language cradles me.
There’s no escape— no such distance,
no such spring—
it halts right beside my ear.
I am drunk
on the wine of your words.
*Translated with AI
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