the flowers of the nipa palm assume the color of
the brown, brackish swamp
expectedly, these flowers shine on the swamp
like fists of an angry man
deep within the thick covering, if one tries hard enough
to open what it has closed for all these years
is a white cloud, thick with syrup, something sweet
its fruits, from the flowers of its fists.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem