Distented afternoons without yellow sunlight,
followed by a half-dark night, a moon gold
as the mouth of a Calcutta dentist.
In the night air at our telescope, his wool scarf
knotted like a race horse tail he could see
the mud houses along the Zambezi.
For my mother, a satin tux, supper at Claridge,
green Pernod at the hidden Fumoir bar;
Swells of pink clouds fetched him to shore;
his funeral boat over the reeds of the Orinoco,
the waves of his native patients intent on saying
good bye as his funeral cortege passed by.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem