She was born prematurely
frail as the chrysalis
of a butterfly
her breathing
a delicate scraping
of wings
where darkness of life
wriggled within her
close to warm breasts,
perpetual suns.
When they approached
the incubator
she seemed
always to be trying
unsuccessfully to grasp tightly
some inchoate awareness:
some animated shiny
toy of darkness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem