Knowing what you will not use,
They glow at night by themselves: they pick up
The amusements the moon pretends
To steal and live off of
The wishes cast down from airplanes:
You never have to wonder where they are going
Now that she is gone—
Her children suckling all around her like a savage mockery
Of a Pieta,
And the garden overplays and becomes so overgrown.
She doesn't even have to pretend to be real
Anymore now that she is so close to you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem