November morning
and two doves
stained yellow
by a horizontal shaft of sunlight
aimed from ninety million miles away
in pigeon-speak might say
that it wasn't chance
and for proof
rise from the apex of the roof
but the light had changed
they held their breath
but diving deep
they soon became aware
that not a trace of yellowness was there
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem