It's as though windmills
had spun a bris marine
to billow autumn like a galleon
over the waves of the park,
the city's still life brushed
by the hand of a Dutch Master,
probably Rembrandt.
The burnished copper
of coins glows in the windows
of shops, dark houses
and a ship that is creaking
like a forest in the mist.
The craquelure of a painting
spreads across pavements,
buildings and sky, the heart
cracking like a dry leaf.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice piece....it shares a part of you (your passion for arts) .Thanks for sharing and keep writing. Take care, rein