Fragrance

A blue-throated bird

Often perches my window,

I like the tepid darkness

Under its blue wings,

My intense wish is to get lost in it.

I have never seen the land of cinnamon,

My utmost wish is to observe the sky

Sitting in the hanging garden of Babylon;

And my words fly freely like butterflies

On the porch of the Vatican Palace.

Nowadays an old woman often comes silently

In my dream, slender, wearing long white cloth,

Looks at me with an unbound philia

And the pain in the stomach stands for a long time

In my courtyard.

My familiar words

Seems to be sleeping in her two dry lips

In the silence of space.

I asked her,” What do you want?”

She said,” Neither I want to visit the land of cinnamon

Nor do I want to see the hanging garden.

Only I want to have the fragrance of rice.”