In absence of what day may bring,
abundance shines
where only night may see;
roots to leaves on tethered shroud.
Distance gallops within its sacred void.
Moping breeze of muted string;
bouncing incessant to starlight's' dawn.
Lost to eye,
not hidden from heart,
twirling and toiling;
fossilized salsa of salty yawns,
too late, too soon, to get;
ever fading swoon
like an amethyst;
etched in sage,
a growth in glance
where nothingness,
begets everything.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A very interesting style, Gert. Thanks for sharing