Like wasps
 stinging the unkind world
 where love is stretched
 and painted green
 the dumb world gleaming
 like bells from a tower
 in a painting
 of a valley, where
 a single puff of steam
 translates the scene.
 Where to travel
 on the empty train?  
 
 
 To sonify a spinoff,
 to spin a pearl
 until its oyster closes
 on resistance, until
 its rock finds a ready
 landing in dark water,
 submerging to a place
 beyond eyes and the soft
 underpinning of words.
 
 In spring you want more,
 the pale leaf's beckoning,
 the heart's easy notice,
 sky and belief
 paint a notion.
 The crisp, unseeming world
 readies for the task.
 Tell it something
 it can believe.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    