That hurt we embrace becomes joy.
Call it to your arms where it can change.
A silkworm eating leaves makes a cocoon.
Each of us weaves a chamber
of leaves and sticks.
Like silkworms, we begin to exist
as we disappear
inside that room.
Without legs, we fly.
When I stop speaking, this poem
will close in silence more magnificent…
I don’t regret how much I love,
and I avoid those who repent their passion.
Hundreds of sweethearts!
I am the lover and the one
lovers long for. Blue, and a cure
for blues, sky in a small cage,
badly hurt but flying.
Everybody’s scandalous flaw is mine.