***
Fingers listen to a song
Of your hands.
Like a tree onto which
The rain is falling,
The waves disappear and
We hear them again.
There’s something in the hills of yours
There’s something in the dreams of mine—
The snow that is falling in the sea
The wind that is hiding under the rocks.
This sky is our sky,
This grass is our grass,
The road we take
Sleeps below us.
***
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem