Everything on the earth bristled, the bramble
pricked and the green thread
nibbled away, the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.
kjnhuygtfrdew2qwaesrdftgyhjkl; kjhgfdsasdfghjkljhgfdsdfghjkjhgfdsdfghj//fdrtgfhgh/fghgdsxweww
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
wonderful poem on the run of aqua-10