‘What? ’
what hand weighs this star
that it never sinks?
what hand?
and the eye of this evening
is already faint. A wasted breed.
but this strand, full of desire,
of zeal
to turn its back
on this evening
and sling its foot across the heart
of the night.
high up the stair of the heavens
it must lean on frames of dews
palming its monocle, ready for the hand.
why does the star not sink?
what hand…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a good question. nice compose