The image of a journey
I must make
as old as history’s hoof beats
in the night before I wake
the moon’s flag fluttering over
weather-beaten coats of arms
yet all the doors
in village after village barred
like live men’s eyes:
along
roads laid down by human hands,
the hoof beats crossing
bridges over streams,
the heart incessantly keeps singing
its own song
singing its journey towards the weariness
of greetings that are last farewells.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem