At the death of day
the phantoms come
from their river home,
like children that want to frolic and play
and they are ever hiding from the sun’s brooding beam,
while they rise like fog from where the river flow,
sometimes are mistaken for vapour or steam,
but have fevering eyes that continually glow
whispering on the winds breath:
“follow me” and again “follow me,
I have gifts to bequeath, ”
while ethereal they are in body
and come calling to claim the young and gay
in gestures that obscure the adult eye
trying to carry them away
under a brooding, dark black sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem