The moon falling next to the Rhein;
a black stone burnt and chipped
as black as the night`s eye
as dark as midnight`s coffee
as hard as the last touch
as strict as a monk`s hand
as quartz as a buried knife
as burnt as a warrior`s brooch.
This bird gasps and loses feathers;
sick with a stomach full of stones
and a thousand years; two fingers pointing at heaven
a block kneeling to water
a prayer caught under a hammer
a pale boy hanging on a wall.
All ready to launch; to be pushed into the brown flood,
over holy mud and under the ochre of early evening.
Cold and quiet; let it take to water.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
cold and quiet, good one, thanks. I invite you to read my poems and comment.