Morn can open a Violet
like a book of hearts
chapters ultraviolet
coarse and converse
in tales of beaux arts
sees my lady immerse
her delicate soul thereof
in a woodland flower bent
over her dust jackets of love
sees the stars disperse
their dewy cobwebbed scent
sees her as my curse
heaven's torment.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem