Lamenting conversation with mirrors
Such was the face of death written large
Acted upon, restored, repaired or sold
The winds of south were bringing
Odor of rotten flesh, eaten fat.
From the grave a dead man arose,
To find a lost legacy
And saw a young boy, a son
Dragging a cart of his portraits
Hiding like a squirrel in a hollow trunk.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great poem, like it. A great write.