The poem alone is the subject
of the poem as it grows
in the mind’s eye. The rain-reflected
sky that imagination shows
me like some half-remembered home
some half-forgotten moment far away: it is some
thing that in itself it was, is, yet is not:
always it grows only
into itself: a fragile design
into which a world’s multiplicity
of realities have momentarily managed to intertwine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem