Little finger of fiery green, it
flickers over stone. Waits
in a weed's shadow.
Here once horror poured so hot, heavy, thick,
everyone was dead before he was sick.
Now here is no heat but the sun's
on old stone treads;
no motion but that rippling inch of whip:
yours, you little live jewel, who slipped away
into silence. Yet stay on to haunt memory,
like those dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem