I have been preparing the ingredients of my own hemlock
since a long time ago. I deny no detail;
do not give up – although it is hard to get used to
the monotony of speech. Thus every fragment
has its role and complies with different time frames.
I have taken pleasure in every little bit
of the poison thus mixed since a long time ago. Truly,
many want to call this writing poetry.
Some complain that they heard these words before.
But I continued listening to the silence,
to assure myself that dead poets are being cited again.
In the end, it came out that there was no flood,
closed remained the books with pictures,
in which blind people seek meaninig of the mirror’s existence.
All that I want is to lessen the enthusiasm
occasioned by gazes in to the bottom of emptied goblets.
And this because every gaze sets on the final
touch of the world. They say that before committing seppuku
the Samurai left farewell poems behind. Right now,
as the day is withdrawing, I am thinking how
every poem is in fact a poem before death,
every effort interpreting mirror – seppuku.
Translated by Nikolai Jeffs