Lovers will decide the title...
No phantom breaths
can devour the love sun lit up moon
like a mythical demon.
The new moon black magic web
in the sharp bow face of the silver scythe
flees in the shame of shreds of a torn black cloth
in a moon lit night.
The silver disc full joy
glides in the glee of confluence
in the hallowed space of an eternal love couple.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem