Somewhere on the far side
of a poem the sun
is setting. In the distance
your tiny figure grows fainter
as it walks away into a landscape
of misty images towards
the paper-thin edge of the page.
Soon you disappear
from view:
in another poem stars
and moon rise
on another landscape,
other images, another
reality of you altogether.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem