The shepherd cries:
Night!
His sheep bleat and
then cease.
But
dry and parched
the throat of the
benighted shepherd.
Yet
with brimming eyes
he watches
still
into the face of the heavens
white with stars and
moon
till whiter it grows with
the lights of Dawn
the rustling twigs and
branches
birds that start to try
their voice
and the dry and parched
shepherd
remains there
still there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem