LAMENT

He laid down his pen.

It rests quietly on the table.

It rests quietly in the void.

He laid down his pen.

Too much that can neither be written nor kept inside!

He’s paralyzed by something happening far away

although his marvelous travel bag pulses like a heart.

Outside, it’s early summer.

From the greenness comes whistling—people or birds?

And blossoming cherry trees embrace the trucks that have returned home.

Weeks go by.

Night arrives slowly.

Moths settle on the windowpane:

small pale telegrams from the world.