The forsythia humming above the Poem by Brigitte Oleschinski
The forsythia humming above the
foreign trade-hives, blinking like black and yellow digits
ready for take off, until here at the rough outer wall, heads hanging
among the endless coats of plaster, in the middle of March, these freezing
waists curl up:
Where do you come from?
Your passport is not guilty -
translated by Karen Leeder, 1999
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/7/2024 6:06:47 PM # 1.0.0.1119
