The boat is coming. My steps are trembling,
searching for settlement on a temporary chair.
I'm on a trip.
My mind is heading towards the blurred destination.
My eyes are ripping up the green glittering water.
Those stone houses along the canal are tailored
nicely to my longing to disjoin me from my country.
Suddenly, hands have emerged from one window, between the curtains.
They're sweeping the windowsill. They're sneering at dead petals.
They're brushing off dry insects and dust.
And the stream has swallowed all of them at one gulp.
For those hands, this shiny emerald
is a flowing coffin clogged with moss.
Those are my hands.
They were hovering above greasy hobs,
They were typing the hollow alphabets, pulling weeds in the garden.
And my hope was chased to the recess of kitchen cupboard.
I set my eyes back to the shiny stream.
There are my hands again reflected on the water.
The hands from the windowsill overlap mine.
We join our hands in the stream, hoping to find something.
We still have a place to go.
Yuko Minamikawa Adams
