As I was prying around the brook last evening
and look for God-knows-what around the shack,
I heard from the woods a cry, like someone weeping
in dark and cold - his calling out in fact.
I listened as I would when in the evenings
as hills and ways go dark I sit and stare
for hours on my doorstep willing
the things I'm waiting for - to be out there.
I went after the voice, the meaning
the night was spreading from the forest bound:
someone has called me by my name, appealing
for help - infirm, hurt, unsound.
The moment passed; and in that very
moment all night passed, passed all day, and so
now from the sky stare down extraordinary
stars into the silence of fresh snow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem