Colder and fainter are they
than the extinguished light
of comets that burn
in the cold space of night.
No warmth pulses
in their hearts like a star.
Their shape is dust.
And yet they are.
They sometimes hover, haloed
in light from afar,
as if seeking the warmth
of something familiar
something so intimate
we almost feel
the magic of a world
that thought has made unreal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem