Even in February
Young things are dying
Alone, as the snow increases
And the pine trees snap
From her unforgiving kiss:
I am here
Though no longer I am:
This is the shadow which
Swallowed the world,
Her dangerous dress
Inlaid with stars
And all the animals of the sea.
I am trapped in its movement,
Though there is not
Enough time to escape,
A kind of dancing tomb
The impermanency of flowers
Beneath the increasing forest,
And not a soul around
To come to me,
And toss a tear for my extinction
Cradled in the lap of
The mother of bones.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem