In the nooks of silence
we keep things in our hands
not in the shape of a fist
but that of a dove
which coos
in the light redness of a rose
we drink no water not even dew
and be still
with the best of the few
the windows that we keep closed
one morning shall open
upon themselves less the hands
of time less the
mind of the skies
lights burst but not
with the sun
bodies are buried not with
the earth and
without the niche that
mostly life expects to see
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem