It is not true
that all things
are born
in warmth.
A strong stem
of white water
plunges into
a corner of
the emerald pool.
My arms are
outstretched
pale greeen
beneath
the water.
Swallows crush
their wings
against
the water's surface.
And I am in the
grip
of some
nameless ecstasy,
emerging from
water
cold
as ice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem