Braided streams of sunlight mingle with the
stones working together in the rock garden,
between the shadows select words rain down
from a fountain of truth, Hemingway's hangover,
lost in a world war, scrubbing at the edges,
filling out the hidden parts of the iceberg,
whittling down the discourse in his drink,
taking alone fundamental shapes, only the
crucial parts of dialogue matter to invisible
metaphors, verbose narration left on the shelf,
the best omissions, from a lost generation,
off the hook, forever free of themselves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
That was delightful. Thank you for sharing.