the tip of my finger
grazes that world.
I want to know it.
I want to know its warmth.
I want to know the way
the Sun feels in that land—
if it kisses the skin more gently.
I want to know
what cherry blossoms,
what milk, what honey
abound.
I want not this cold exile.
but, if I should not be welcome,
I would beg:
let me not know of it.
let me forget I’d ever seen it.
for this
can only be hell
if i know
heaven exists.