At last loss has visited me,
She carries me in her throat tonight.
The night is a bed of tears frozen in time
they labour under the past, mime
what was then a fugitive, now a
tyrant, the moon rises as a prayer,
a pair of hands in a cupped stare.
Dawn sleeps by the window-sill, dreams.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem