Resting again- again, in the valleys
Of windmills who know of
The keenest pleasures-
They lay in one spot and move and move:
Can’t you see them moving,
Coming over the hill, or rising up
From Iceland- making headway where
They stand
And you are in art class trying to reconcile
It with your greatest love,
As the comets are in their slings
Curling around the hips of shadows and
Having a good time-
And the students? They have all gone into
A classroom of whispers.
Maybe it is their birthday, but one at a
Time.
And the windmills? Well, you know what
They are doing:
Turning, turning- raising their heads to
The angels-
And the angels sit there bawling, bawling-
And all of the earth and sky
Having a marvelous time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem