In my heart is a cavalcade of flowers
each with a single root:
each point baring a bandanas lance
at the first of summers many full-round fruits.
Oh, joy! the joy of a loving torment!
that hanging grape upon the vine-
that virginal moon sitting in her convent.
Who isn't barren of the facts, she'll be 'His, or mine? '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem