The fruit trees have not been baptised
children`s souls in limbo, in mist
Cold green fruit hangs in the rain,
it is a hole in the late afternoon.
They gave been punished by the battery of
the old priest`s car, hurried steps over wet gravel.
Neither heaven nor hell, the rounds of blossom unbroken,
pointless to walk through, should the rain cease.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The first four lines made perfect sense.