Can a poem be happy, and tell the truth, too?
Love, there is no truth except as it relates to you.
So this poem must find a way to make you happy
And praise is what love loves; the world, flattery.
So I’ll ask love how to praise you best
Before my eastern poem travels sadly to the west.
A poet only praises if the poet has seen, or heard,
A sensory delight, and can turn it into a word.
A poet praises—so happiness can also be true;
The sun, light, word, earth—turning in you.
A poet can only praise what love in love has done.
Love, tell me, as the horizon in the west ascends to the sun,
How does love look to you? Look! Cloudy, hungry, skies
Cover the sun. Mother! Accept what’s seen by your child’s eyes.
Praising mother cannot be done.
The origin of love and words are hers.
