A silver light as thin as a web creeps into my room
and flickers about just over my head as whispers of perfume.
Faintly mesmerizing as a dream I want to return,
it darts about one moment more, then rides its brief sojourn
back into velvet, into that world where bright moon whispers live.
I close my eyes and hear a voice, and God, what I wouldn't give
to see her again, to hold her hand, to feel her chin on my shoulder.
And in my heart, my journey starts ‘cross fields of flowering clover.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem