its only a paper moon
half-cloaked in oblivion
a shade or two darker
than it used to be
but still a paper moon.
the street below is dark
with something more than night
and folded into its ribs
is a poem of silent syllables
and jazz music spilling off silver spoons.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this a lot. 'half clothed in oblivion'- mmm, strikes my fancy 'A poem of silent syllables', and the silver spoon ending: pure potent creation.