The sun, flushed with toil, is slowly leaving his watch,
As tenderly the moon reveals her curve.
Has it been five days since I last saw you?
I do not readily recall,
Nor have I kept any count at all;
Why should these cold numbers matter,
When every moment my heart slumps in lament
Of your absence, but like a feather
It dances around in your sight,
Till it falls on you again some other night?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem