By Thomas Page

The Untranslatable

This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.

My grandfather has a rule about running late

That when you are in the car

You are in the car

And can’t do anything else about it.

You can’t leave fifteen minutes earlier

When you are already in motion

With the eastward light becoming westward.

There should be an inner peace

When the control flies like a bird

From your hand

Watching it disappear into the horizon.

Letting it all go to the roulette

Alternating black and red

With your choice in stacks

Distinct from the revolutions.

Let it be like the filtering light

On a soundless day

Without the pollution

Or the doubts of philosophers.

Language: Japanese

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