Over barren trees
the tattered moon
ascends, barely clearing
dark hills
pausing, unwilling
to fall back
into cold, delta fog,
like the lumbering C-5
rising through the gloom
on bright thunderbolts
to December's
bleeding moon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
'like the lumbering C-5 rising through the gloom on bright thunderbolts to December's bleeding moon.' very nice line! I have seen them lumber myself in Little Rock and they do just as you say...<