the wind tiurns my apple tree
into a victim, a lover banging
on a closed door of gnarled wood,
a dance makes this ringing evening
singular, the leaves agree to fall
and turn in the dull faith of air;
they tell us about birth and departure,
about leaving together, about stories
of ending as the sun arcs and protests
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem