thin arc of bowed buttermilk moon shines like a sliver of cheese.
scudding silver sails of cloud elude capture
as the stars look down miffed and mysterious,
can they really predict fate.
sometimes love rides the train like a hobo searching for a home
and Venus laughing hearty winks.
so where does love begin?
never in the bright ring of the sun
but in the clandestine night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem