'After summer, all the wide land is like an
aging woman, her temper uncertain and fitful,
either smiling appealingly and stretching out
her bony hand, apple polished and fingers
long and yellow, or angered without apparent
reason so that we stumble over dead things
in fields that are blackened but not burnt and
sparkle so absurdly in the waning sunshine
like cheap jewelry on a tattered costume in
which the old woman is trying to distract
everybody while her ancient partners in crime,
squawking and flapping their heavy wings,
gobble up the last remaining seeds and fly
away.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem