Here we begin again,
And our mothers’ hands are over our faces,
And the grass is grazing the sultry tips of my infantile toes,
Nibbling
Just gently like the cricket in between,
And the light that is bounding over the crescent hills
And shining upon me
Is bringing new meaning in every shore woven rift step
In the valley of the dark and endless mountain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem