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Joan Miró

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The wind’s tongue.
The always clear cobalt sky
bit at
your painting.
In a prehistoric poster
words doze like pebbles.

A gallop of  feathers
kidnaps
the conversation between coarse ropes and wild beasts.
You paint within a blinking birthmark
the marriage of  heaven and hell
faster
than tying a ribbon in a mirror.

Children’s playground.
From some rolling balls
one transparent ball flies off.
I call it Miró.
 
Translated from the Japanese

Source: Poetry (November 2014)
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Joan Miró

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