I lie under leaves
of grave oak trees
and dodge the sieved sun
I shift my head
and blink my eye
a fearless sun
and an oak
no match
I am stuck
with a pin
like a fly
right through.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The nicest thing about getting a comment on one's poem is that it points to the commenter's poetry. This is such a resonant work - images of the god of the oaks, sacrifice, the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - spring to mind. And even then, I'm sure I never discovered the secret of your song. That's the mark of a true work of poetry. Lovexx, Will