and the mind that's closing the eyes
reaching for the soft slopes of mountains
walking through the valleys to the side
of the fountains cut off from the edge of a drop
to sprinkle horizons with a moist grain of salt
rising on a dried out lip and see
the waves of deserts in sun burnt skin
a lonely surfer born in tide wind
who never looked for a piece of the shore
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
exceptionally beautiful especially the sixth line turn into the imagery of the last three lines, a beautiful way to finish the dreaming