These girls don't even know their names
Nor of the world in which they play,
All in secret gardens grow,
A fairy mound and woods of snow.
So crept a single infant tear,
Into the looking glass so clear,
In ripples which were counted there,
Thousands in their moment there.
All dreams of blood and crying then,
Became the dreams of dying when,
All became so clear,
All dreams are counted here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It's so lovely in its quality of a strange coldness.