What they left behind them
are the stone fences.
Each stone,
now covered by a patina of lichen;
Each stone,
grayish-green, here,
in the clean November sunlight;
Each stone,
once held between two palms.
These stone fences
are their Stonehenge
to us:
miles and miles of hand felt care
falling back into time
through the clear November air.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
That's right - history and humanity are everywhere you look (and don't look) . You've expressed this beautifully here. Thanks for this.