The night air, 
free of the day's fever 
and passion,
Blows over the sleeping foes,
That are almost friends in sleep.
The lips that moved 
to hurt are motionless,
The teeth that clenched 
in anger are sealed with sleep.
The tongue, 
the sword like thing 
that cut so sharp, 
such unhealing wounds, 
is sheathed.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    