In a little wood, beside the glade of
Vampires,
And blue faeries, up turned, flaming
Their waterfalls
For weddings of the passersby—
There lies the woman who makes the hills,
Her thies the weave of caesuras—
The moon a child of her bossom,
With airplanes and jets in her weedy hair
For barretts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem