With gentle red assaults, Dawn, I was granting you names:
Mistaken dream, Angel without exit, Falsehood of rain in the trees.
At the edges of my soul, that recalls the rivers,
Indecisive, hesitant, still.
Spilt star, Confused light weeping, Glass without voice?
No.
Error of snow in water, is your name.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem