Small creatures shiver in their lairs
While the full moon is strangled by the tree
Whose branches wrestle with the wind,
Scraping, groaning ceaselessly.
In deep discomfort, deprived of sleep,
I get up from my barren bed,
Draw back my curtains
And see the cold night bristle with stars.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Evocative of a deep winter's night's dreamscape, only too real. A wonderful first stanza, especially.