I'm translating hundred -year-old poems
from California in this afternoon gloom,
putting the long-travelled waves hitting
a distant shore against the waves rising
inside, colliding with them. But the Pacific
billows of a hundred years don't subdue
my visions. The latter no longer water,
but hard cliffs rising above the sentences
incapable of eroding the embedded desire
as they come rolling and break.
16.08.2024
Poem Poems Poetry Verse
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