Sycamore and oak
toss skinned branches:
leaves trimmed to size,
nerves cropped tight:
while the snow lasts and sleeps
in the earth's sunk flank
lulls earth's unease
into the ancient calm
dimmed, blotched beyond
a possible, muffled cry,
leaving it with nothing but:
be still, sleep
in this chill; heal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem