The weight inside a dive; muscles work against the wind.
Motionless ignore the reduced; a quilt of cornfields,
bleached boxes of barns; holes full of gravel,
a mess of houses and lanes. So when
the heat rises and the earth scatters:
heed the hunter`s eyes, the blue irises,
the terrible beauty of the last seconds, sinking.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
terrible beauty. Wonderful coining. thanks. I invite you to read my poems and comment.