You see how
Verses walk.
Time walks
But hand in hand
With motion
Direct proportion.
But verses no,
They boil
As fire boils
Burn as desire.
The lo0nely pine wood
How many pines
It has
How many
Yet I forget all
For my verses
Though stunning
The beauty of the
Woods of pines
Swooning in the
Hands of the red dusk
In the hands
Of a slow-declining
Beauty.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem