The new solution sleeps within the vial,
it's song drips like the tentacles of the sun.
Still alone in this dome, waving to creation
The math of the animator dreams within the vial,
his sleeves are paper injections
inked in the blood of the golden hand.
His day is slow without the shade
or shapes in drooping hollows.
And so I lay dying in a punctured chariot, holding the vial.
My math is complete, and my nerves are never ending.
This sacrifice begins with a sound
and fades out with imagined applause.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your line usage is very vivid. 'And so I lay dying in a punctured chariot' is so depictive. In fact, the entire last stanza of your poem is classic stuff. You are a remarkable writer. I appreciate your talent(s) . Great job. ~LSP~