Smitten birds
fly through the woods,
wing to wing,
as if the wind
had woven the two.
Through shade of trees
and scattered light,
they follow the same small stream
into the falling night.
A call is made,
a call withdrawn;
the dusk grows deep,
the moment gone.
No word is spoken,
none is sought;
the silence says
what lips dare not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem