A rock face, sheer with tan, aging trees.
Darkened, moss claws an existence.
Screaming, the river bank, wet with delight,
gently ushers the water through its bosom.
The trees sway with thirst, a gentle whistle, a violent roar.
But giving is not what banks do.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem