An old man retreads the past,
drags the clubfoot of statemanship
across the terrace top of dreaming.
The entrails are not auspicious.
After a summer of treachery and broken sleep
his astrologer still lies desperately.
Under a gull white awning pregnant on the breeze
visitor float through
wearing the perfume of a bruised rose.
The gardener of one season,
the boy swimming naked among the carp,
the biblophile and the dancing girl
are dismissed out of boredom.
An alegbra of stars is sunk in the heart.
New allies wait on the sleeping couch
whisper across silk cushions
and lift silver spoons
of deadly mushroom
and honeyed quail.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem