The white ribbon
gives you an angle.
Moon will rise from that point.
The summer dwells
in your poppies.
I was walking with feet of clay.
My eyes will collect
your scarlet lips,
for a deathless painting.
There it was, the body in
velvet, lying under the shade.
Only moon was naked.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem