In the hollow place
where frozen children live,
the colors of truth
are a cold little witch
named me my mine.
She is sinking
in the river of time.
Beneath a moon
full of hemlock and
the gray light of hunger,
the river moves
like a whisper.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Brilliant. Magnificent. And painfully all too true.