There are no blackberries
in the wind;
no juice
slips from my lips.
Last year's briars
are brittle and brown;
next year's
green and grasping.
What calls
is the winter;
we will wither,
our vines slacken.
There are no blackberries;
last year's briars
in the winter
bristle and unwind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful and lyric poem of winter but with just a hint of next years fruit as in. 'Last year's briars are brittle and brown; next year's green and grasping. I love this poem Thanks for sharing