I am the empty grave,
The golden rows that wave,
Reflections in your eye,
The starry ports of night.
I am the open book,
What lovers wear; that look,
The things that babies say,
The passage of the day.
The drunk moon in the sky
Is hung upon a sigh,
And all the dreams we dream
Are hardly what they seem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem