searching for the perfect word on virginal paper
leads to the cut, to oaken tears, to a sorrow of yews;
then the unblance; rowdy tracks of leaves and branches:
the pushing down against green bursts, the mud and ways;
as if we could find more truth than the idle wind
through trees on a summer`s night, more than a whisper.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem