The summer sleeps
and soft crickets play poker
for ripe ripe leaves
while spiders watch
until the losers go home
before they spin their webs
on the winner too full
from his winnings to move
to escape to do something
not to become a meal
while dew paints
the warm dawn
as stillness takes over
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Charles, Night splinters into thousands of untold stories, and you've managed to snatch one up. Beautiful! Carol