Cool, cool ashes
Floating through the yard’s grasses,
Makes me remember the pantheisms
Of the easy and commercial road-
This is how it looks to me out the pastoral verandas
From my window-
Everything so painless and beautiful,
And in the morning,
If I am up early enough,
The bus will be waiting not far from
Where the lions are snoring;
And if it is the correct season,
By seventh period,
I will be well drunk,
And the skies despotic,
And stormy,
Somehow as beautiful as her lips when
They are beaten, and pensive,
And giving me quiet reasons to live.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem