Dressed in his tuxedo black
and white the priestly undertaker shrike
uplifts his charges on a shriek
or fits them neatly in a coffin crack.
Though fiery sermons burn in his throat
in the pulpit of the mimosa tree
where he loudly proclaims his piety,
nowhere in all the lushness does a single woodnote
decry the flowering church’s cold debauchery.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem