The fondling soft ears of a dog, 
the hand slap on the sweat-lathered neck of my horse
or my daughter's clasp round my neck
wire my heart
                       To the quest of source
of touch which, bristling with words, 
forbids me enter
                           until I match the words
                           to the shape of silence.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    