It is to still,
strang bubbles wafting from the bottom up
and pop,
the smell is as if people have farted
I silently flaot across black lake,
narrowly missing a shiney black boat, two white men
in the dark look black.
Under the cover of tree's where bushes aren't, these are
trees heavy of root
bending down from the neck and drink.
Their shadows of moss must cover the dark inky sky.
A light held forth in a hand filters up from what was
latter unknown but now is flowers.
Their thin harry leaves little arms without hands do not
wish us to tarry
They are round of face and flat and full of word's.
Warm world's collide with the cold as we breath in all
the vapor from the bubbles that burst.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
late at night under the shining sky crossing water on a catamaran alone sparkling stars and coll breeze makes the traveller a shining star!