This debt of mine
this life you live to give
away to they whom came before.
I give to thee.
Darkness and is it not a song
all wait to hear it naught in sight
when sleep comes temp me, near?
When the dawn is new and that upon
on which I lay,
beneeth the clouds, held off drift near.
Dear and wading out so far from shore,
my breath you see it as a plume,
of spray when I swim there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem