Colors from the tree's voice
Caress my  cheeks.
I see a ripple in the wind.
This happened after drinking plum wine
With her who has long ebony hair.

The sun sees her black hair,
Dances on the  lichen covering the wet stone,
The motion of the sun's legs
Writes my  poems.

Something is guiding
My fingers
To write  words.
This something
Is what I have forgotten.
It is what
I cannot  recall.
When this something is present,
My fingers become  birds.

 
Why do we die again and again?

We die
Because our house
Put a  period
At the end of the spontaneous sentence
It had written on the  sky.

We die
Because we see the hours as  numbers,
And not
As dancers
With long, black Chinese hair.

We die
Because we imagine ourselves a  circle,
And not a triangle
With an acute angle.

When death points at you,
It points
At  your image
In a mirror.
One-armed death points with its thumb,
Because  the other four fingers are missing.
Only a thumb points,
Because the hand  is missing, the arm is missing,
The body is missing.
The  thumb
Points
Until the image in the mirror disappears.

The thumbnail is painted the color of naked,  blonde, freckled skin,
But turns to gold
When the image in the mirror  vanishes.