Thrusting
diagonally
across the picture space
a Prussian blue cypress
leans its ancient twisted trunk
towards the darkly clad
hunched figure
of a peasant shouldering
a sack of seeds
asymmetrically positioned
at the left
against a drab autumn background
of barren fields and trees
in a sickly colored citron sky
an immense yellow sun sets
provocatively placed
like a halo
above the bent head
of the toiling sower
whose weathered brown hands
struggle to sow
the seed of life
on fertile ground.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Reading a picture skillfully, deep enough, leaving accuracy aside, is in my view as arduous as creating the same. Creator can and usually does finish creating the picture. But, is there an end to reading the same? I wonder. Wonderful poem and thanks for sharing. X