for whom the bell tolls let him know
what looks like stars on the horizon
are fires tended by seaweed burners
and like torches aflame
they burn the boats of young fishermen
whose dreams now wander in the night
with a cuckoo calling and fireflies darting
in uncertain rays of light
one cannot be sure
that life will last till evening
but still we’ll live on
perhaps we shouldn’t have laughed
and laughed so loudly in the pine room
full of sunbeams late that afternoon
maybe that’s why your footsteps were combed
and soon would be shampooed with detergents
to erase your footprints at doors of the Dome
but, we’ll live on in the chill
melting slowly like snow
dripping unhurriedly from icicle
with the falling moonbeams
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem