in the river that has
dried
lies the bed of the
dead
the moss, the pebbles,
the fish and the frog.
the solid mud, and the
shrimps,
embedded there is also
my memory of my father
we used to fish there
when i was a child
we had a boat that
rowed its waters and
the songs that echoed
on the mountain sides
penetrating the trees
and the forest, in the
silence of the birds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem