The sun's scorching claws descend
Scratching round my barren scalp
Where the tree of laughter once scend
Stretching like the water-loving salp
The green feathers shade my frame
While the sun would come simmering
There I would crouch plain and same
Verses of soft psalms made whispering
Stout wind romance the yellow sun
And fallen! the graceful oak of veiling
Clustering columbidae glare as it burn
Soon it will roast under long baking
Here I lay bare-skin figure
In blaze I await disfigure
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem