The old man shuffled into drop-cloth night
absolving dark hooded the vacant day,
soothing his nettled mind-until an arc
of moon usurped his way,
fixing him with its crescent horns
-as if in the grasp of a countermand
its fingernail pressed into dark,
as if his night were taken in hand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
EVEN AN OLDE DUFFER LIKE ME, COULD CATCH HIS MESSAGE, ROBERT BURNS, PORTLAND, OR