Gazebos in the rain,
A warm drizzling,
And the wine in tall glasses.
A sitting and standing,
A shuffle of voices
And thoughts, uttered and unuttered, reached out and pulled in.
And a girl
Who writes poems from the etchings on desks,
An etching for an etching.
Something profound is here,
I cannot find it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem