Perhaps it'll be the only thing to see
through December snow strokes
through the drifts and glides
of white leaves dipped in madness
of white winds circling white sadness
round and round the axes of numberless pendulum skies
spinning thoughts oblivion words and silence too
in white whirls of futility
blue hopes borne of dust
reaching sad maturity
and die too fast too fast
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem