A Bogey man
is dancing something
weird.
A tortous shape,
thin limbs
and pasty beard.
Leering
into my open
casement.
I am benumbed
with awe and stark
amazement.
Has he picked me
for a free dancing
teacher?
Can my poor skills
teach that contortionist
creature?
Yes, I am convulsed
like in a break dance
frenzy.
He's copying me
like shadowy and subterranean
denizen.
Does it what I can see
look like
an apparition?
Or have I conjured up
a raucous
superstition?
Is it mere a play
of fading faulty
glow?
Or tis the darkness
knitting its pale
brow?
The Bogey man, perhaps,
my eclipsed
dreaming? ...
Oh, must be a cloth
pinned onto a line
a-streaming!
Living alone
through all reverberating
periods,
Take things for ghosts,
dwarfs, angels, elves and similar
weirds...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem