He caught a hawk-moth
With his hand when really
He wanted to keep a child
From plunging headlong into water.
The child, unsteadily upright,
Saw a wound-shaped
Jewel. It fluttered and
Tumbled, ducked down the
Blond hairs of a smooth skin
And landed flat on a rippling plane.
There it drank briefly from its
doom, then drifted, like old
barter, into the river mouth,
the waterfall, washed along
with things.
A hand grown small reached
For a pointing finger.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem