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
As if time had just now become short
Idling silvery skies, this island becomes me!
My death might be closer than thirty
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem