Mourn for the Earth
-as the bed- to green the fine dreams
Most have to toil
when the band saws go to round beams,
expunge leaves over the brown deams!
eye the clutch hugs the clammy point
and avian eye, that winks, seams,
while timbers' laying right in the joint.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem