A garden wet with dew glistens emerald green,
its gate squeaks before it slams shut.
Ghostly footsteps pad down in the mud,
The sun is shining like a golden nectarine.
And nettles like javelins stand tall ridged together
Humming and mumbling in rows quietly by
the compost heap, amassed against the red-brick wall.
Till all the stars convene and a hunter's moon
reveals the ghost, the ghost of hope
striding to a distant horizon, in a desert
we see dancing Zebra moths, angered by the sun,
its rays of amber always, setting over someone in dunes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem