In a frame of a―
window, I watch
daily, a saddest,
star, and a palm
holding the clouds
like an Atlas.
No winds. The
bougainvillea still
drops the colored bracts―
in wait of moon―
unheeding the advice
of bright sun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The turbulent surface of the water mirrored the heavens with perfect verisimilitude. A sloop with sails fore and aft of the mast traversed the seas the unceasingly. Marriage, cried the ringmaster. Bring me my bride that we procreate pleasantly and never die.