my path were whispers,
i would with scythe prune
and make a bed of sounds,
whispers tell no tales
no falsehood,
but rend in the husky notes
moonlight upon moonlight
of times
and of intimacies;
move not a leaf, o breeze
that i may not hear,
silence of the night
here is precious,
o brook, hold thy cold waters by the hook,
hold your churns and murmur
that I miss not the sweet whisper.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem