He goes to Rome
tomorrow,
the young monk,
tall, clothed in black.
I shake his hand
as other do
by the refectory door;
she opens herself
to me
like a forest flower
even in
my holy sleep.
The old monk
turns in his dying,
the church bells
chime him
the hour
in a steady peal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem