Saturday
in the summer morning
the yard and the porch
light
and shade
up in the air bird
sun on water
is already sitting
and the man with the book
has the peace on the lake
the beautiful landscape
and he is reading
not feeling the touch
butterfly on the hand
orange you are touching
is fleeing
eternal traveller
where fields
freedom
the opened hand
and the space...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem