When there are a thousand honey rhymes
Flying in the air
I am in birchland and in autumn
Being lashed by poems
Made by trees
And tree-limbs in my mind
Cover the moon in the wind-whirling nights
With branch writing
Lettering their sleep
And my airborne headiness:
Brisk times coming
Stones to wash gleaming
Seeds to sing lullabies to
And deaths to smell
As they turn sleepily into life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem