Poetry – Footprint
About the trail
In the shadow of the moon
Dense when the recesses of light have disappeared
And the shoulder of the eagle that faintly disappears from the sky
In the pulse of locusts worship
When my village has become a new light of its own, this is a place that I often remember
There are oceanic crochetes
In the path of history, woven by touch
Small scallops, glowing indigo dye in bamboo baskets.
I'm looking for long grass
they appear on the beach.
Try to feel something from the meeting.
These are only memories
Traces far and near from those who live and feel
Laugh in the midst of people who come
Holding silence at that moment, when I stared in surprise, on the canvas cracks of the painting,
such as pulling carefully, the skin attached to the fruit of the rainy season.
I remember this moment
Not because they are stunned by the great dream
But from something I've known,
From a small place, where is my son's hand,
It's hidden warmly in my hand.