/ At the Bois de Boulogne
The broken silver of the lake water, at the left side of Paris
The Leo jumps through the fire wheel.
Pine needles, your props for rituals.
The wind counts your graying hair,
Eyelashes, wild grasses with a messy shadow.
Paddle, the arm of silence rowing across the blue sky
making circles, dry as children’s wells dug on the sand
that collapse on the banks of dreams.
Breathe and the wind alternates
Reflecting the setting sun in the pine forest water drops
hang onto the attic of the hermit.
Nobody accepts the skull of the giant
In L’Île de la Cité, an old clock polishes the ferry crossing,
and knocks on the memory of the prisoner on death row.
The fiery crane, the harp you crave,
plucks the heart of the lake.
The blind spender of gold in the rainbow,
a day of suffering for the Korean raspberry,
the goblin in the woods appearing in a circus,
the plum of ancient divination lines tasting tart,
no date of return.
From one water circle to another
the star’s crown is shattered by the yaksha.
Along the iron tower walks an exile.
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