Murder of June (A Poem)

There’s no subject in our parting There’s no object in our parting There’s no complete sentence in our lives The sleep not knowing the negatives, grumbles We renew at the every turning of ally in the morning The old afternoon voice lacks vowel sounds In the evening, arouses dry laughter with two sneaky hands A day’s time is the voice of a murderer, Becomes more insensible as it disguises June! It becomes silent with growth of the sprouts The witch’s Sabbath grinning out loud, Hikoboshi, your tender name, Repeating like a imbecile Taking out the old wings of worn-out feelings Presses with silver abstraction The glance upon the stairway of past myth, Becomes more comforting.

Call out the name of her crying at the pond of memories Smell your breath, still shaking its head after the season vanished Water spreading and begging to close the backdoor of time The spiritual of June, steps in slowly and murders you The blue garden of June, when the poppy arouses the half-century tongue of fire irons the skin of weak solitude