these pale cold days
away from comfort’s arms
leaves these wild eyes yearning
beneath melancholy’s brows
like waif the spirit gropes
for a touch in the pools of love
like one that is long dead
buried behind shrouds of dust
yet with living eyes still opened
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I wonder whether 'waif-like' rather than 'like waif' would complement the opening line second stanza - anyway, regardless of which, this is still a fabulous poem! Rgds, Ivan