The beast
draws a circle for
winter, untelling.
You climb the frozen
falls, to reach the moon
in gray.
The treachery
in domes was evident.
You get the twisted cones.
Under the shade
of stars, you start the
fire to ignite the limbs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
In the warmth of the sun icicles lose their cold purity. The photons fracture their structure hoping they might become friends. They force a cloudiness on a clear day. Thunderclouds brew internally. Let the night come with healing stars and light as old as time.