I, the lover of night, the consort of winters cold confess.
I reach out to a reaching hand
A hand, out of shadow
Seen only by moon and me
Of faceless beauty
That draws close and closer still
Traversing ever-dark and depthless chasm
Silence in-between
Peace within
And ire of envious storms about
Fingertips touch, kiss and play –
And then together they
In sweet slumber lie
The dream ends thus.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem