the sight drags her tears along
a little crimson clinging to her cheeks
she cocoons her hands like an acorn
the squirrel misfortune nibbling on her
decides to speak but for the codger
and the night falls short in confession
but the dulcet morning is no treason
she walks with a heavy rucksack on
to her homestead or to the river
that we shall understand never
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem