I haven’t been laughing:
The racehorses are not pretty, bastioned as they
Stand, gelded stockings
Prisms of last changes:
Clouds in the sky, cars on the streets:
The passing of ribbons, the pedaling of feet:
And in the park,
The play of pretty innocents skipping school:
The old rouses brushing hands,
Remembering the lilacs that stood the test of
Time,
Or the way their mother haunted them only
Because she had nothing else on her mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem