Morning was patient with us, she and I,
Within earful white walls and solemn
gardens.
Poetry reigned.
She: How do you submit your thoughts -
on a gold platter with a prophet's head
and a skin of dead wine?
And the eloquence of Ancient Rome returned.
Tongue opened up on the large breath of
a sot's revelry. High, profound proverbs of poetry...
I hastened up: A hunter's skill is seen on the veins
of his arms. On a platter of poetry,
the sun beams on the blessings of the initiated.
Words rise and fall on undulating terrains of
fig's foundations. Towards the green search
for summons, trials revisit.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem