Twilight, a mute textile
Eye wandered fabric
Ripens the golden dust
Wefting with the present
Graves mark the known now gone
Scythed the seasons cut grass
Whose hay feeds somewhere
Singing of reflection
As all thing make focus
Lensed with a pilgrimage
The distance is passing
Beneath the sun's setting
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem