with other confines....stabilities...ornamentation....
a place of grassland sleep...
a whisper not
of that roped and tied and trampled
ground
up by the bibliotechnical arcade.....
.which petals are intact..
.which branches burn.....
is it a land of sympathy, then....swollen with plumeria and rushing cataracts...
......a torn page and a jotted evensong......?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem