Connie’s Reviews > The Collected Poems of Chika Sagawa > Status Update
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Connie
is 37% done
“The laughter we have today
Becomes captive to the eternal”
— May 25, 2023 05:29PM
Becomes captive to the eternal”
Connie
is 36% done
DAY OF SNOW
Butterflies flutter daily.
Tearing off the flower patterns from windows
They collect upon the parasol
Spread across your chest.
Reflected in white as they pass by
I chase them and chase them
But the road is long.
— May 25, 2023 05:27PM
Butterflies flutter daily.
Tearing off the flower patterns from windows
They collect upon the parasol
Spread across your chest.
Reflected in white as they pass by
I chase them and chase them
But the road is long.
Connie
is 21% done
“People throw rings at the sky.
In order to capture the suns.”
— May 25, 2023 07:13AM
In order to capture the suns.”
Connie
is 20% done
IT IS SNOWING
Upstairs from us, a grand ball!
Devious angels dance in disorder, and out of their steps fall shards of deathly white snow.
Death is among the holly leaves. Crawling quietly in the attic. Gnawing at my finger. Anxiously.
And then at midnight—it falls at the storefront of the glass shop, exposing its stark white back.
Old love and time are buried, and the earth devours them.
— May 25, 2023 07:10AM
Upstairs from us, a grand ball!
Devious angels dance in disorder, and out of their steps fall shards of deathly white snow.
Death is among the holly leaves. Crawling quietly in the attic. Gnawing at my finger. Anxiously.
And then at midnight—it falls at the storefront of the glass shop, exposing its stark white back.
Old love and time are buried, and the earth devours them.
Connie
is 19% done
RUSTY KNIFE
Pale blue dusk scales the window.
A lamp dangles from the sky like the neck of a woman.
Murky dark air permeates the room—spreads out a single blanket.
The books, ink, and rusty knife seem to be gradually stealing the life out of me.
While everything sneered,
Night was already in my hands.
— May 25, 2023 06:57AM
Pale blue dusk scales the window.
A lamp dangles from the sky like the neck of a woman.
Murky dark air permeates the room—spreads out a single blanket.
The books, ink, and rusty knife seem to be gradually stealing the life out of me.
While everything sneered,
Night was already in my hands.
—Listen: to the sprouts emerging from within the hurricane.
The garden is now trying to go to ruin.
Will the wind that extinguishes trembling life again relieve its burden on the trees.
The trunks of arrogance and laziness chopped down to the earth brutally torment your thinking.
They are all forms of deception provisional, painted masks.
The ocean of the blazing sun opens entangles with a field of roses only the spoken words beg forgiveness while trying to live.