Like the wind whisking
the pocked ripe leaves off the ground
lets them fall again,
or the wave washing
ashore the corpse of a child
returns to sweep it
but, on nearing folds
back leaving the mass of guilt
blooming in the sun,
my longing reaches
to cut into your dark house
but sees light and fails.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem