A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye
I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
Eating sonnets,
She rode the Lion’s gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
My blindness,
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness
While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west
While unease ripens in the fog Lulled inside the years A bloodied sun comes out in the west - beautiful ending, you have composed very well, thanks for sharing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
While unease ripens in the fog Lulled inside the years A bloodied sun comes out in the west.. scary images conveying.. composed well. thank you. tony