The new moon has the old moon in her arms tonight,
and over Moseley the air is still, the stars wink
feebly through the light-spill of the city,
no chance of deadly storms outside; inside
my bones whisper of the Mistral shaking shoots
in Courthezon, leaves we thought we'd never see,
coldly insinuating it is time to go;
we cannot harvest what we did not sow
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem