Table lamp's moth, or moon, maybe
Inspect our secret tears.
What in deathly quiets give
A recount of lost years.
Page-ran, and inscribed with them
The diarist's, as a rule.
Or dews on grass, park's hunched o'er.
Airs, still warm, ridicule.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem