TWO-THIRTY
I awoke to a song,
A wavering cadence,
Languishing and long,
Of an adamantine dance.
It turned my gaze to the open window
Which looked out upon the garden's greenish boon.
And in that cloister's orphic glow
It died in the hedgerow, rising to the moon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem