With flies that speak the language of men
She inhabits these mountains
Collecting innocent stones
And building aimless stupas
(This is playing with karma in sand)
Her eyes shine the color of amber

Each evening she plucks centipedes from the wall
And encloses them in bottles of oil
(In ten years, they will melt away
And leave perfectly clear oil
The same color as my eyes)

Sometimes she plucks a metaphor
An amaranth from the shade
And dresses its leaves for dinner
For fifty years she has lived here
Conversing with the flies
(Shall I remove my cloak before long?)

Butterflies the color of dead leaves
Return to soil the color of dead leaves
While the woman, the color of a corpse
Kneads earth, the color of a corpse
Into a doll of indeterminate sex

(In one hundred years I will have crumbled away
Becoming just clean, light sand
Both the doll and me as well)
Then someone will collect the sand once again
To construct another game of karma

One morning when heaven grows distant from the land
The cicada shell will shed itself and return to the wind
In any case, I present a flower as offering
The black lily blooms
Releasing its faint, foul aroma

Translation: 2010, Jeffrey Angles