Molded to those lips of cannons,
The green airplanes fold up and go to sleep
Long after the absences of chirruping tourisms:
When the night flowers bloom
Their milky lactates, mimicking the stolen
Architectures of moonrises-
And across the ocean there is only absences
All together between the beating breasts of waves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem