Under the singing ploughland
that sucks at heels;
a crush of half sticks
warm cake of moss and water
the dark loam broken.
Bones as flint
and flint to cut.
But they have it all;
rivers and mountains
and palaces and streets
(rain as white wine,
stars as gravel
the moon`s rock)
and the foolishness of glued wings.
The tread of cruel steps.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem