The fruit of our summer's passion
has ripened and withered
On the vine
Fallen, it
Awaits
The benediction of the leaf and
White shroud of winter
An alabaster tomb
Icy and sure
Soon to give resurrection to bones
Bent to the will of a memory
Cast in richer times
Now in the melting trickles
Ephemeral threads give rise to the bursting flowers
Bees descend in hordes to deflower the virgins of spring
Hot tongues to split the forge
We awake and beg our task
To see the face of god or feel our lover's touch?
Shall we then set fire to
This summer cauldron
Boil this witches brew;
Love (Yes it is spoken.)
Or shall we flinch and fear the
Consuming flame.
Rise up upon the spirit of the wood and like
The courtship of trees
carry our love on the on the wings of butterflies and bees
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem