The palace
collapsing
once
a symbol of splendor
the guest rooms
the dance halls
the ceiling paintings
what once seemed eternal
now gradually
falling apart
unable to escape
a child remains
witnessing the end
even in haste
the palace cannot be rebuilt
seated in a chair
gazing up at the ceiling
the collapse of the palace
is the palace's concern
the child
smiles
May those with wisdom
not trespass
May those who carry tools
not appear
May the foolish ones
just pass through
The forest’s wish
is the insects’ wish
The forest’s wish
is the animals’ wish
The forest’s wish
cannot be heard by humans
Though it is the same
as what they wish for
in their own homes
In the forest
they forget
The forest’s language
becomes inaudible
Though in their homes
they wish for
the same things as the forest
Though in their homes
they speak
the language of the forest
When they go to the forest
they forget
the forest’s language
with an axe in hand
When they say
they do not understand
the forest’s words
people conveniently
lose their hearts
always
though under their roofs
they are reciting
the forest’s wish
Though praised,
no help could reach
the little birds.
Children of humans
held the power
to bring an end
to the world of flowers.
Flowers
were never made
to resist humankind.
Children of humans
fix their gaze
on the horizon.
What,
if anything,
will stand to fight
for humans
To bury flowers
is to bury time
(who could ever teach such a thing)
To lay in earth
the hours once spent loving flowers
(who could ever teach such a thing)
To place grief in the soil
so time may begin again
(who could ever teach such a thing)
What,
if anything,
will stand to fight
for humans
In a world
where no struggle exists,
who,
if anyone,
might remain gentle
The Bird of Death
Poetry calls out
to the child who is alone
Words that reach
the garden of memories
connect to that age
when poetry can be heard
That is
our smaller selves
Even if the flowers once known
have become frightening
poetry says there is nothing to fear, come closer to them
For in the forest
so many more plants exist
There is no escape, says poetry
The words that tremble when spoken aloud
were chased
by our smaller selves
The poems of flowers
born to be read
from the moment they were written
perhaps already knew
they would place
an impression beyond grasp
upon her shoulders
Even now
even if the subject disappears
poetry will carry the scene
That it carried someone
with words
will remain
a secret with the garden
While crushing honeybees
a voice is heard
The poem of the girl
thinks it has learned of death
Death clings to flowers
as if touching
the joy of being alive
and clings
to her poetry
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