fold it there (my dear,)
a hundredfold
if you may
(for someday we may be,
the same burly bunyan tree)
in a certain pot in your memory
with me - - - the light
(of day had long been hazy,
misty- metallically awry)
ne'er did blend with any dove
agile enough to infuse- a love
strange to hate and lethargy.
feel me there (my dear
amongst the dropping leaves- -
brown and red, with the cascades
of the swirling threads and gales)
just like the days you hear
the voice of my swarthy skin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem