The drapes—as sheer as ghosts—
flutter and gently sway in time
to the soft xylophonic chime
of wind-conducted toasts.
They clink like crystal has,
in instances where glasses meet,
percussively obliged a beat
as if performing jazz.
The wind-chime, though, emits
a slow concerto of its own
to please the girl who sits alone
and, as she listens, knits,
humming a southern tune,
a soloist whose only band
is six thin tubes of metal and
a breezy afternoon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Absolute mastery of the music of poetry. Thanks so much I need to add this one to my favorites.