Little scraps of knowledge sewn together for a chemise
Is all I have in the draughty world
And the constant stitching, where the hem or the sleeve
Is torn by the thorn of forgetfulness,
Leaves the great loom untended
On which I would weave
The thick tweed shield
Of the expert in his field.
(Yet I, yet I, dance in the hedge
And bur my hair with teasels)
14/9/2011
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem