Night's Magician, laughing dark
Spells, drifts in battle array to
The Morning's Day...
Lifts his black-sleeved arms,
Spreads black robes
Over the Infant
Gurgling purples, lavenders...
Trees rayed in Light
Tear holes in dark folds...
Infant Morning, Mother of Day,
Toys with the
Mobile
In the Sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem