A poem contains that
wee moth-like thing you may call interest,
fixing itself at a distance
on this independent life.
In this instance,
let us view the white moon which,
till now, has been reflecting something else's
light without your notice.
A few words are
enough to cause the ego's own eclipse;
a net lifts, over you.
When sunlight
goes, you notice the stars.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem