Metal smith I am
Claws I make of these hands, fingers
Farmer I am
Raking a part of better aggregation
I want to make claws
To fork-out these eyes
Off their sockets
And plant them firmly
Deep in a flat mirror Ground After a dedicated plough
They like the youths the beauty the freshness and ripeness
Dislike the wrinkled maturity at the verge of departure
Let these eyes remain grow sunflower-like
Dance with the sun
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem