The salmon sky at sunset withers
the heart of myself, till hollow, echoes
of its light leave me alone, poet
with an image, idea, even yearning.
As memories make me, mark myself
with a finger as of Gods, go, and find
the heart of your music, hold it lightly
while it beats against your bands of fingers;
go, and find the gold that veins
the stone that stands a statue of yourself,
and trace its ways, and weigh your poetry
while it glistens and glimmers, and gleams in your fingers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.