He, in the wistful air,
Turned away like sheets, twisting,
And still our love was inward, pressing...
As our hearts in displaced care
Made each his own cell, silent, wishing
That two souls so dark and rare
And so in love, would sing:
O lucky his bed now, I thought
And lucky his numbing smile to me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem