summer

translated by PLS

bats spin in the salty smell of pickled black-eyed peas

creases grow out of our edges

because of their contours dispersing in sunlight,

and of staring, the expressions start to appear.

waiting for the destined weather to traverse

the unfinished structure in the fleeting green.

there is only boredom other than walking.

everything else is incombustible apart from

the cracking bodies of insects, yet they are still being exhausted.

the distant fables made of stones

the feelings that once sculpted them, are now clear

as the dream from a siesta.