Drop upon drop, fate bangs away
On imminent loss: liquid evaporating.
We only go up, condense our beings,
To unavoidably fall
Through insipid fleeing.
A cycle undeniable, casual
In how reliable our reactions are.
Failure to question all rituals
Tipping healthiness to lard.
Spars for a farce—
Wars through a marsh—
Horses that tarnish
Themselves at the smallest
Of sparks.
Bars for the heart—
Limbs in tar—
Are enough to collect
All beliefs, regret
In a jar.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very good poem, I like it, thanks. I invite you to read my poems and comment.