Cloth Ball.
But you scythe it
Sometimes burn it
Disembowl it of all dreams therin
Three hours ofmulberry picking
Turn into a wreckage moment
As you take those berries
From living hands with killing hands
Tocrush barmily under feet
Both feet 'n hands get orphaned
by way of ignorance
You shear what is to share
To warpedly make sense
You chase lifebut life is a hare
Sure of craggy soil
It elopes storms like a swallow
When time, its brother,
Becomes a botherer
When God plays off the one
Against the other,
You burn the cloth ball
And chase life in pitch-dark
As if it were a wild cat
That has to find place in the cold
Then you blame it for shivering
Right into chill
Like a piece of bark valley-vomited
And has to wait for the sun
Or for some fire use
You have to wait for more words
I won't structure them
I won't hide them
But, deeds for bloody sure I will.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem