The moonrise on the cheek of snow.
Words that charm me while I sleep.
When I get up, what do I know?
The meaning's gone. No residue.
Instead there's traffic, shoveling, boots.
The moonrise on the cheek of snow
elopes with me. Or wants to.
At ten, I don't indulge it. No,
I shush it. And at noon there's no
dark force on earth could make me go.
The moonrise on the cheek of snow
knows what it wants: its way with me.
Finally, at dusk, I fall asleep
and what wild peace, to feel it grow,
this child, this song whose father is
The moonrise on the cheek of snow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem