she stands
with white hands clasping the black of the eve
the first I think it might be like last - she stands
she moves
with traceless feet through the dusk to conceive
the first to be born child with the day last - she moves
she stares
with eyes glittering against the stars - Sir- never for them
to bury her own shade into the earth like a precious gem
that never wants to be lost
that never wants to be found
mind that - Sir
before you turn around
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem