A dew-drop of thought spread its ficiton on the fog;
A half-conceived vision fought to stand unstrained
With its feet fixed over the grey slippery froth;
Hands caught the reins of rain while something sat
Upon the rolling straddle of the sea's silvery cloth.
The scene was set, conceivable enough,
Constructed with concrete conjuring words, or ought,
Though now considering this after-thought
It seems the scene dissolves and what's left of it
Is the gleam of watery words and hiss of slithering mock.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem