Tonight
clutches to a withered eucalyptus
squeezes the last summer seed
resists, bargains with, condenses, flows
and re-flows
down the stream
with her white smile. Cello.
Inside you
a shape is awake.
It stands up blocking a tiny keyhole on the door.
It flutters its wings.
In your deep throat, a rumbling.
Faraway in the mountain
the howling is receding
You rock back and forth
but nothing happens.
Up the stream with her white smile
The Crying Cello.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem