After the sonnet ends it begins.
The final word glistens suspended on a string
like an industrious spider on strands slender as pins,
like a trapeze artist’s precarious swing.
The minstral invites you to take the gift
of vases of words and decanters of wit
and parse them in your mind and shift
the meanings and the mores to fit
the memories of music and rhyme
in the repository of your mind
and perhaps to recall some other time,
and in the recollection find
another starting point where the thought ends,
still another meaning where the line bends.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem