Lilies without a sound
Gazing at a field as blue as a sea
Rocks of glimmering silver
Sleep as deep as the soul
I resist the devil
You come to me with lanterns
With candles
I hear prayer and praise
Vermeer measures his gold
We believe that art is mystical
We pursue the voice in the forest
Snow and wind
Clouds with form different yet universal
Waiting for words that sit like cliffs
Flow like tides
Cry like rain
Ansel Adams knew
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem