The stream enters with a tenderness
the object she holds, off this bank,
cracked of sure thankfulness
one could offer, over such a drink-
cracked and pared like an odd fruit
revealing time beneath its flesh;
the rift of a mind exuding soon
nulled duress. Thus, she sits,
filling her thought with long waters
till vagueness rise and sift her hands;
then releases it back, cold daughter,
enchanter of this abstract land.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem