Linen drapes the valley,
Lingering for Tlaloc's
Languid approval...
Luxuriating sacrifices.
Priestesses spread arms,
Perpetuating rain gods'
Pleasure tonight, and
Perhaps tomorrow.
Flowing, sheer linen
Falls to Earth...
Flashes! Branches bending
Forbidding winds.
A tighter fabric weave...
Another treeline disappears
And rain gods chant
Apocalyptic approval.
Thor tests his Hammer
That terrifies lightning
To run across
The sky...silver tinsel.
A dog is under my bed.
A creature seeks comfort
Against the storm...
And I talk to her,
'Ssssh, now. The Ancient
Ones are long gone.
Ssssh.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ah for the olden days when storms conveyed the vexation of the gods. How cruel that we are left with mere meteorology. That leaves us with no one to blame for our fears.