Glowing through insidious times,
suspended like a flock of herons
turning their curved, beady beaks
towards the final surf,
the old man dives
for a glimpse of mercy
in harnessed night.
Calamities like holy shadows
toll for the witness’ eye.
Weight fills recollections of the past
with more than regret.
Cry you hollow man;
the wind is in your shoes.
There is no one to follow you.
The echo of circular water
bleeds like sand in a tumbler.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem