First, beauty seemed to come back
In capillary-like, bird-flying transience
As the orange orb came up shaking
In gray rocks and tentative leaf-ends
It is the sleeping rocks that glowed
Their contours passionately etched
Against white houses in blue spaces.
We had tiptoed all the way to the hillock
As the trees looked down on us, clinging,
Their foliage witness to our fecund follies.
Our thoughts remained in their bounds
Our images shreds of a few fluffy clouds
The search ended in several fiery pixels.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem