The deep silence of a
mainland, without a coast
or line of surf, no, better
the serrated lowland on the sea
its edges thin as
postage stamps and ravelled
everything there carries a watermark
or is watery; the moon
a hammered out silver disk
tear-stained behind her
film of mist, her veil;
the women there are sand-colored
and as blond as new wood
and just as fragrant
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem