In closed fist, a cob onset,
like fresh buttercup,
decends an ancient lineage.
Blossomed to living, incursed with fragrance,
though tossed in filt, with purity of
no blot.
This lingering living under the sun,
illuminated by the moon,
on one leg, in puberty of no sin,
sways in gentle spiral, but tasting
the cold breeze and developing a flush,
unavoidable,
the flutter recedes.
Not away from the rays and
yet under the night sphere,
now translated into withering,
not able to dabb the flush,
the linger to recedes and the lone
leg prickled, now comes the sudden death.
And with no victims burial;
the voyage ends!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem