Sky is such softness, is such dark,
Mt as the pelt of a black panther is
In his den's bight. Under the mat soft black
Flows - a moving mirror of that pure dark -
The river. Sparse lights debate or affirm a farther shore.
But darkness is at flood where, slow, black moves upon black
Yet lifts two lanterns
A boat's length apart; they kindle the water
To brief life, moving down the river.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem