A picture snapped
A smell of pine, diffuse
A lake, wide and blue
A distant boat wake, a hunting bird of prey
A mountain, ancient and wise
A peace, a thousand layers peeled.
A balance, a wholesomeness
A longing, satisfied
A visceral contentment
A permanent cycle
Yet still fleeting
And somehow still
Not completely it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem