The moonlight is ice-cream cold.
Empty as the songs of troubadours.
It is pleasant to sit in the shadow of the night.
Latrine, Pissoir. Here.
The man behind the door, what does he want?
He stands like a shadow
behind the translucent door
of the moonlight.
Moonlight over fields
is like petrified sorrow…
Your body shines
in the moonlight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem