Sunday, 13 June 2010

SABUROH KURODA - Afternoon 3

Countless things escape easily out of me,
As if a breeze blows through fingers.
There were some floatages,
Having settled on the sand
After drift.
I pick up a broken piece of pencil.
In the dry air, quietly,
My head burns, my hair burns.
What is more inflammable than head or hair?
As long as man does not move,
The horizon
Means to be blind.
Solitude, which reminds me of an old woman,
Eating a peanut, alone in the dead of night,
Runs at full speed on a white bicycle,
Scattering a handful of ashes.
A crab shows its face out of the pit.
A crab puts its face into the pit.

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