Earth, earth,
riding your merry-go-round
toward extinction,
right to the roots,
thickening the oceans like gravy,
festering in your caves,
you are becoming a latrine.
Your trees are twisted chairs.
Your flowers moan at their mirrors,
and cry for a sun that doesn't wear a mask.
Your clouds wear white,
trying to become nuns
and say novenas to the sky.
The sky is yellow with its jaundice,
and its veins spill into the rivers
where the fish kneel down
to swallow hair and goat's eyes.
All in all, I'd say,
the world is strangling.
And I, in my bed each night,
listen to my twenty shoes
converse about it.
And the moon,
under its dark hood,
falls out of the sky each night,
with its hungry red mouth
to suck at my scars.
A lovely journey through the valley....how wevsll feel every thing working against us.
This is poetry sublime. The metaphors are not from this earth. A poem of cosmic proportion.
A magnificent poem full of melancholy. Congratulations on being chosen as The Classic Poem Of The Day. To her family are these words. A true fascinating poem.
And the moon, under its dark hood, falls out of the sky each night,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
When it sucks all your scars, does it heal them? I think you're imaginative and the meanings are in layers. Thank you Sexton, I wish to know who sits on the twisted chairs.