She is like a sunflower in the night
who just has learnt to turn to face the darkness
awaiting for the shooting star to fall
to rinse her expectancy with its glittery luminosity;
not knowing - it is never really a star
but a small piece of rare rock
or just finely powdered earthly reliance: promised dust.
Being burnt up in the black blankness
which hits the vacuity
before it ever reaches
any heart-shaped blade of a blossom: bent and yellow!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem