While the plants dream up their own growth,
Buds stretch on thin stalks,
And the seeds pulse heavy in fruit:
Be there, aware that shoots and tendrils,
Anything that reaches out to the light,
Are held up by invisible hands.
Because somewhere it is winter
and you have written about lying
on the cold ground on yellow ginkgo leaves,
and the leaves fluttering like scales of a chimaera
softly around your torso,
And you feel the change.
I move my hand over your face, my way of saying,
"Gone."
This uncommon becoming, looking back:
"Worlds"
"Stay" in the forever looking.
Beauty is affirmed by the poet, yet the reader cannot help the impression
that these uplifted moments of loveliness come from some shadowed corners
and disconsolate chambers of the poet's own sublimate consciousness.
Nudged by this fugitive impression a reader could well come up with elegiac
responses of his own.
(from the introduction by Edith L. Tiempo, National Artist for Literature 1999)
Publisher: UST Publishing House, 2004
