What of this my life has been your eyes my open book.
I would have read again you never did I lumber, taught.
Forgotten ways so it often is, it's but then written.
But I, then but for you, I should have, when I could.
When both this life and cypress trees,
some softer wind blown leaves, thus call.
My memory covered water moving tannan drifts.
A hat of green transparent dreams.
And the ocean made of sandy waves, pours over all of it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem