The moon is sad about something –
Her surface is a pale shadow, a light that dims
with the passing of each night. She embraces
This darkness, these clouds that conceal
Her face. She shines on no one.
The bent willow bears his branches,
Throwing arms wide open to the wind,
In offering, in sacrifice.
Lighting splits the heavens,
Thunder roars in answer –
Great showers grace the blackened skies.
A flower bows before her mistress,
Drunk and heavy, a bell swollen with water,
A stem that is fit to burst
The moon lulls in the fog
The stars recede, and the land
Is washed in sadness
With a sound
More tender and desperate than silence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem