there was this old man bent to his
weaving mats and baskets,
and his wife too, as old as he is,
eighty or so,
gazes upon the patterns of colors
and shapes
both know, what grace and love have
made from out of them,
mellowed backbones, like bending flowers
to the setting sun
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem