Passing God's acre; graves and flowers and inscriptions
"Loving fathers" and "selfless martyrs", a mile of scruples
Wrinkled as sand, she's making the gestures we learned as children
Shapes with her hand, traced through the air
Sharing a glance, she eyes me dumbly!
Does she envy my youth? I envy it too
She leaves in a hurry, as if to attend forgotten things
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem