Its eye is a steep cliff,
steeper than driving rain;
holds nothing of treacheries
of if – only the necessities of now –
the contemplation of the fall;
braces to the immediate blows of wind,
undercuts of lightning flashes;
beyond shelter and certainty
surges into the moment
with not even a glance at the grave
stones at the foot of earth’s precipice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem