North.
The moon cold as an olive.
Hard as a skinned thrush.
The Northmen.
Bronzed and teeth-rooted.
Each thought cuts the snow.
The Ship.
Now black with earth
Salt and tide.
Look through the first sparks;
The night cleaved with smoke.
A broken moon the sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An interesting poem. Enjoyed reading.