In glacial grasp the harbors broods,
clogged with slabs and scows of ice;
flotillas sentenced to quietude
complain and creak in a polar vise.
The shore is sternly disciplined:
idle dunes, designed by the chill
pottering fingers of the wind,
sulk in dull composure still:
A plum-dark bruise of clouds concedes
a diminished slant of brittle light
to the rusty spines of grass and seeds
poking like hairs from mummified white.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem