In the silent rustling of the evergrass,
the piquant shadows of old dogs run
under the dirt, searching for the boy
who whistled once, then stopped to
leave them to devices imprinted in the
peak behind guileless, puzzled eyes.
For now, forever, history wakes afresh
in the flaring nostrils of each morn's expectations,
though sleep has beckoned anciently, and hearts
have fallen silent in the snow. They wait.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem