Fissures fall as a deluge
straight from a pitch-black sky;
criss-crossing water is amplified
by the rain-drenched seeking refuge
when a sullen rush without a sound
- there is such a hush within -
seems to crash upon his hollowed head
this solitary din:
wood footsteps drum the wood;
shafts splash to their own width;
deep's cry to deep is understood
as the crossing becomes a bridge
between the line that glides, his raft,
the one within his hand
and the ones that guide his splintered craft
their splinters to expand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem