Sheets of white ice double the frozen glass,
the net curtains break the ice light and the
smell of damp books and insects, autumn apples,
moments of childhood under eaves,
I am not in sorrow apart from sorrowing, a terrible desire
is born to stop clocks, victims of time and snow and
my grave is hidden under dusty floorboards, so
scratching with broken fingers I search for my sorrow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem