just after the last roseate glow....
the tinge of it
having left the tufted ears of their multiple selves....
their probosci barely visible in the darkening....
each gnarled and wizened trunk serves as a foil...
and still the eyes and fangs are illuminated....
.....reflected, lit by a strangely reluctant crescent....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem