The Rain on the Wheat Fields Ends, and: Thinking of Fear, and: As I Was Taken from my Parents' House, and: We Met in a Dream

The Rain on the Wheat Fields Ends

The rain on the wheat fields ends.Over the diverse things of the landthe same earthly light.

My love is coming back and I am happy.

Holding hands, perhaps,or perhaps not holding hands.

It is impossible not to thinkthat tomorrow we will walk to the housetogether.

To see how beautiful the city is, seen from the mountains.Or not to see how beautiful the city is, seen from the mountains.

Thinking of Fear

I remember a dream I used to haveas a child.

I would walk across a flooded fieldholding hands with someonenow forgotten.

To see is so easy.

To see means to be alone in the fields,or it just means to be happy,to be sitting on chairs.

Trapped in their fences,the animals have reached a decision:they are not dying tonight!

As they stare at us, pensively.(We are alive!)

An insect's sharp intelligencebriefly breaks the standing waterof a lake.

Every morning,children walk to schoolinside their miniscule, individual clouds.

End of discord among the angels of the caves.

It is the beginning of the day.

An ugly man puts on a large suit,yawning as he opens the door of a house.

Distracted,he examines both swollen hands.

In the middle of the plaza,surrounded by a crowd,a monkey dances.

Kitchen sounds come down from heaven.As it sees a reptile go by,a dog lets out a short human shout.

In the ocean, a beautiful fishwatches a beautiful fish swimfor the very first time.

As I Was Taken from my Parents' House

As a child, I was taken from my parents' house.As a child, I was called by the false waves of the ocean.

There was no laughter in the house where they raised me.

We would wake up in the morningand go to work in the fields.

Holding my breath,I waited for those who finally took me away.

They came at night and asked me not to say a word,without saying a word.

Without saying a word,I bid farewell to my friends who were as sadas the five fingers of my hand.

I remember the last day wellbecause it was like any other day.

The last day was every dayand every day was the last day.

(And our days are the last days.)

It was difficult to abandonmy children and my spouse

for they were, after all,my spouse and my children.

I can still hear the distant games of the childrenas I distantly observetheir close-by games.

On the streets of my childhoodI played with small stones,pieces of bone.

Very sullenly,for I played only with pieces of bone.Watching the sunrise, I would think of something grandiosesince forgotten.

I would always pray before going to bed,and, sometimes, as I sleptI would speak with my own wordsbecause they were easy to think up.

There the fishermen go,(who feel so sorry for all children)there they go to die in the ocean!

Or so I thought.

Instead,the fishermen laughed on the boats and drank liquorinside the infinite waves.

As they reached heaven, they would cast their nets over the cloudsand open another bottle.

As if to celebrate the unexpected catch of a tunaor a bass.

This is just me seeing thingswhere things do not exist.

But what doesthe existence of thingsmean?

It means to be too far from thingsor too close to things.

It means to be too closeto the infinite bottles.

It means that we are all crying.It means that we are alone in the world.

Et cetera.

We Met in a Dream

We meet in a dream.Greet each other, secretly.

We say insignificant things...