Your voice on the phone was like holly
spiky with red berries,
like Christmas white
feathery snow and cold brightness;
the sound of bells on a horse drawn sled,
a cinnamon stick of hard sweetness,
the prick of a sharp thin conifer leaf,
the crisp cold heights of a slope,
territory of the sublime
a white-out dry-out heaven
on the line.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem