Between what is and what is not
we walked, the Huntress loosed a shot.
Before and after, we were there -
the arrow pierced but singing air.
That, my love, was quite an art,
to be together and apart
yet we, transparent, without fear -
what were we but singing air?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A sincere, slightly obscure love poem, in the top bracket. I like the final question.