poets, the evergreens,
their poems, the word
gospels that didn't make
the big book like
birds on overhead wires
accidentally perched
in the sequence of a
Beethoven symphony
but those words divine,
while I figure out grain
on half lit wooden floors
reduced, now, to poems
in pyjamas, oh my life,
delayed, enforcing other
immortalities
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem