I have myself
held a newborn son,
living,
but too young to live.
These grief trains
have no doors to open,
no common measure of their loads.
Just a wave, then,
through a clouded window,
from one passing
on a distant track.
Poetry. Translations of poetry, mostly classical Chinese and Japanese. Anything else I want to write.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)