Fatigues of epithets
round thy neck,
my love:
plougher I am, the eternal-
for thee,
digging from this imagined dust,
harvest of my thoughts:
new trophies, new accolades, and all-
each day -
each new pomegranate of sensuality-
taste this ripe bursts
of my summer love,
and ruby of my mind
soaked in bloody glitter-
beyond this room sun sets
when day's rhyme ends,
the road curves out soon
in uncertainty of the unseen;
people go...come...fated like
busy, blunt time...
necessity pulls me down-
on the dreary street
fighters rough up,
diggers of life hold
hovels, spades and sweats
like them, tired I am walking down
my shadows long-
like street dogs they roar
for a piece of bread;
outside my windows
whispers of pestilence,
outside his doors
decay's wounds-
each day I live concocted,
both for you
and for my bread...
in the headlong clamour
and shadows and strife
and fatigues...
I dig for thee
epithets of gold...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem