Despite the perfection of the reflected sun
which burns the water that holds it
Despite the perfection of the bullet-holed clock
that spoke its last twelve and turned to stone
Despite the perfection of the pause between a cabbage
and the shadow it casts on the grey-tiled floor
Despite the perfection with which the creeper's roots
dig below the rock on which the house stands
You search for your true name, scrabbling in grass
that's drying to nothing in the perfection of the sun's gaze
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem