THE FLIGHT OF THE MOON
bY YOKO TAWADA
Translated by Bruno navaski
Translated by Bruno navaski
I was singing on the toilet
when the moon
came rolling in
bare naked
on a bicycle
racing through a forest of metaphor
the moon came to meet me.
Along the road outside
a beautiful woman walks by, brushing her teeth.
On a park bench
a man in a maternity dress is drinking apple juice.
At the end of the century health is always in full phase.
A hole in the sky drops open.
Distress like the moon, a gloom like the moon are gone
and the likes
fly brightly round and round that hole.
The deep folds of the abyss smooth.
Across the now-blank suffering face
poets start to skate.
The moon... mine... another.
when the moon
came rolling in
bare naked
on a bicycle
racing through a forest of metaphor
the moon came to meet me.
Along the road outside
a beautiful woman walks by, brushing her teeth.
On a park bench
a man in a maternity dress is drinking apple juice.
At the end of the century health is always in full phase.
A hole in the sky drops open.
Distress like the moon, a gloom like the moon are gone
and the likes
fly brightly round and round that hole.
The deep folds of the abyss smooth.
Across the now-blank suffering face
poets start to skate.
The moon... mine... another.
