An evening primrose glides,
on my rough hands.
I pluck a laugh from the lips,
of a parched face.
It knows the meaning of death,
kissing the pink eyes.
Of the lost fidelity
and the innocence of the dying sun.
How to tell myself,
you are not coming.
Gradually the house,
will go back to its still air.
The white ants,
will draw a pattern
on the stale books.
The traffic of private tears,
will begin to move.
The truth is a happening,
with all the little gods.
I demand nothing,
only pink rose buds, of early winter.
There is no one to know,
that weeping grass,
keeps me touching,
holding my toes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
When I read poetry like this it illustrates how far I have, Poetically, to travel. So, I'll make up some sandwiches and get on my way.... and if I get even close to your writing, then I will be thrilled!