my mustache and beard still kept dirty for you
isn’t dirt the realm of your love?
flutters thrashed by a green moss wind
billows like a fish forced to its death
does not pulse, the boats are gazing
does not beat, on its branch solitude dangles
flowing sadness delivered from space
slipping and sliding towards the thighs
stretches, a pilgrim shuffles in despair
the furrows of an unshaven plank
the disquiet of a raging wind
the sun falling on the folds of my eyes dazzling
fences the surroundings, your voice rasping
© T. Alias Taib. Translation © 2021 by Eddin Khoo. All rights reserved.