Washed with old rain
that maps the parentless wind
under a sky scant with grey birds.
Heavy with wood; illuminated with dew
and one with the open heaven; thorn-ringed
as shadows creep as mice.
Let the star of lost faith
escape between your eyes;
the trail down a face; uncertain curves
as a leaf falls with shaked flight,
weightless with a green heart,
sorry end of a widow`s finger.
The forest and the tress
crash into a hole of falling water
that may be lost, loud-breathed
with the wings of broken day;
two beside you; white as cold ash
with the face of sorrow, waiting.
And when they rise like
blackened moons, they shall hold
your arms high, pulling back, pulling.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem