THE PLOUGH Poem by Yves Bonnefoy
THE PLOUGH
Five o'clock. Snow again. I hear voices
In the front of the world.
A plough
Like a moon in the third quarter
Shines, but the night
Covers it with a layer of snow.
And this child
Has the whole house to himself, from now on. He goes
From one window to another. He presses
His fingers against the glass. He sees
Drops form where he stops
Pushing the mist towards the falling sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 1:07:58 AM # 1.0.0.1119
