this is what I give you -
the sweet fade of faces remembered,
the called fragments of a name once loved,
the peaches and plums we hauled together
and the russet hand of works as one.
But this is not for you, comrade...
You will take from OUR time
only
tilth pliant with worms,
debris and rotten roots.
Don't look!
I might be looking back.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem