ヒマワリの悲しみ

it is a paradox. that i am sitting so high while living from below. comfort comes in a foreign tongue. midnight bleeding on fibers pressed flat and bleached white as if to complement the irony of the darkness of the confessions of man's soul. some how melodramatic prose found its way into my hand, grew,and grew into the stalk of a sun flower, into a small building and bloomed its gilded pedals, ribs, like a Ferris wheel. worn hands aged 75 on a five year old face stretched the constellations across the top. the face behind the face has become just the same. the weight grows with age and earth whispers to the children, "please, come back home. please, come back into the ground". then pride of a lion is broken. 1. then 2. then 3, and 4 and 5, then 8, then 10, and 13, and 16, then 20, they fall between the cracks in the soil and grass. they say then, "do you wish to try, try, try, to touch the sky again?" "i need sunshine!" we reply. "i need sunshine! where do you go while i am away?" we say. inside outerspace morning comes, and the city slowly rises again. it is the lament of a tire. round and round we go wearing thin but staying in one place. so everything returns to where it began, to ヒマワリの悲しみ.