Perhaps you, too, become
reclusive, the element of choice
seemingly invisible -
a will-o-the-wisp you think
you followed in autumn
mists on the moor,
letting your compass fall from your hand.
Where can an uncertain future find you?
Tell me, in wintering buds and
suddenly flowering leaves,
opening and falling
in forests of poems
where all of the crones
grow singly in stature
and silence is talking at last.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem