Down on the floor, among the waving bronze
Of weeds, and threading lilies' roots, are fish;
And on the surface, flowers, leaves and swans.
A tarnished glint of scales, a bubbling swish
Disturbs the shadows of that cold green night
Of nibbling mouths that know no other wish.
No singing there; but, delicately white,
The petals open on the leaves above
Like butterflies that poise their wings for flight.
Nothing remains; even the mournful dove
Has vanished, and the little breasts are gone
That were too hungry for the lips of love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem