The age has taken
away the bones
of tall trees.
I am drinking
from the lips of moon,
the tiny specks of pain.
Crossing my candles, I
try to read the dark
sky, hanging from distant stars.
What was in store
for us, secured in vaults
of future rage?
Is it the last confession
of dying bottomless
present, without a cue?
The prophets of doom
are on the doorsteps of a
long winter night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
My love spoke to me in words I could not hear. The vibrations of her vocal chords caused no stir. Enveloped in a vacuum I had no choice but to touch her skin, to electrify my mind. She closed her eyes. Her voice rose in a roar the night could not deter.