Less of charity
was needed, when you sleep
till dawn.
The spirit of the tree
comes down to
wake up the sage.
It spills the light
for a troubled window
cracked by hail.
A drenched house
of words
becomes pale, page by page.
I do not know
how to tell the story
of two bats which flew without wings.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem