caught every morning in the lover’s hair, the sunset
circulates through its strands of red, of light
because every arrow emerges from the dawn
evening is weaved from midday to joy
from sorrow to night... an opposite, a face
everyone knows sharing is sacred
if leaves and statements don’t decay, then death
is a green garden, its reward infinite
people evaporate from boiling water to the face of the sky
painting the sky blue so it rains
the person who plants the growing tree is mixed with the infinite
there are people who love rain and also those who don’t know how to love
Translated by Andrew Wessels
EN 
MK