The young grove was cut totally
By a lumberman - it's life.
What was thought by God primordially -
Then man tackled to recast.
And the grove is now - not waving,
Everywhere - the rusty stubs.
In the voices of my natives
I hear your voice, alien, dark.
And is looming to me as circles,
Mystic circles of your eyes.
- We're for sure - the indissoluble,
Indissoluble foes thus.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
mystics circles of eyes. good poem. thanks.