A sword in his right hand, a stone in his left hand,
He is naked. Shod and naked. Hatted and naked.
The ribbons of his leaf-wreathed, bronze-brimmed bonnet
Are tasseled; crisped into the folds of frills,
Trills, graces, they lie in separation
Among the curls that lie in separation
Upon the shoulders.
Lightly, as if accustomed,
Loosely, as if indifferent, The boy holds in grace
The stone moulded; somehow, by the fingers, The sword alien, somehow, to the hand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem