On an iced December morning, so faded that it could be
Grey, but if you squint you see
It is really a divine shade of fairest cobalt.
Inhale the sky; crisp, exfoliating.
On a lazy July lunchtime, glistening with the heat
Of the day, enchantingly shimmering;
Reflected below with white foam.
It radiates life.
On a golden September afternoon; honeyed;
Your long shadow falling behind you, its silhouette flawless and desirably slender –
Tawny light that softens your features in flaxen heavens
Smile gently.
On any clear night, the orb of the sky draws your gaze
In an angular curve or a naïve sphere
And all the eternal cats’ eyes
Are tiny pinpoints in your web of despair.
So consider the sky
For it is perfect:
Much more so than anything beneath it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem