Reaching in the slow morning air
Extending wanting fingertips to that place
The place where you now should be
It is now cold and empty, barren of form
Where did you go in the lonely night?
What beating wings carried you from your rest?
What sound, what music, what flute took you from me?
The silent sounds of loneliness rips into night’s fragile curtain
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem