Drowsy hot, beats
wings of many feet.
Thin clear fans, strain
hums tunes in honey.
Running around as, it's
rain golden wine flows,
presumptuously, truant.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I think about them a lot, what happens if they disappear... 'humming tunes in honey' I like that... Colin J...