Sleeping shapes know that long trembled looking
Gladdens the soul on its regular haunts,
Like the buried kite rises from its dew of puddles
And circle-walking cloud-catchers wave back taunts.
This all-sun heart swoops down dust-laden lanes
Feeling hidden songs; streaming bars of golden highs.
From benches birds roam shaded fields of the heavens
To fly near vines, where sultry hands catch the night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem