Butte

translated by PLS

my roses are blooming in a stranger’s garden

square, misty hills

three, the number chosen by fate

crossing a feast of superstition

but in the midnight reflections of wine

the fire soars, it’s the kite

not the moon, moonlight will always descend on earth

to distinguish tears from ocean waters

the hand that fumbles the clock case 

was you, defining an instant with a second

segmenting dilapidated buildings, from the joy of strumming

of course we are no stranger to each tile

of the death corridor, the eighty centimetres copy and pasted

he’s never deviated

the broadcast spells your name clearly

the axes are imminent, tongues are counting the rosebuds

we are raising glasses, spending springs

and summers in abjection, except autumns and winters

oh forget about it, forget all about it now

i can’t sketch out your chanting shadow

with my blessings, your roses will always bloom

sunshine pierces through sycamore leaves 

just like this

to write about you, without a name