outside my bedroom
window
on a sheet of ebony,
the moon sits,
diaphanous veils
of cloud playing
with her pierrot
face, and I wonder
what possesses
wolves and mad men
to howl at her.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ah, an ancient soulful question, to be pondered for the ages. Well stated Bert! ... does, perhaps, the fact that the view is from your bedroom play into the idea? Just a thought...