She knows her own
To trim, to clip.
Most perfect form
From root to tip.
When we dance
Green waves, she sways
Below her breath
She softly says;
“The finest lines
Of many kinds”,
A find! A wind
To guide some blind
Lot to hope, no call, no chord,
To the point of Crocea Mors.
From under rock and folded wings,
Comes procession; pillows, rings.
But flower kept- kept til Spring,
And only then when swallows sing,
When daisies march to man the earth,
When raven’s loot but shy your worth,
You tilt your neck, begin to show
I love you rose and how you grow!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sue, indeed a finely balanced and whimsically beautiful poem. Rgds, Ivan