'Musicians never talk;
their fingers cannot lie;
they bow their heads and walk,
perpetually shy.
Arrangements are uptight;
you're angry when you play;
applause fills up the night
and I am blown away.
White moon on midnight lake
and waves of radio,
a dance that I can't fake,
I drown in afterglow.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem