we walk barefoot down nuclear beaches,
driven, without direction, to leave footprints.
coughing up spit, and avoiding shadows,
of small minded men following
the legend of the phallus,
to early, and inconvenient deaths.
gulls swing over in drunken glaze,
we bend to pick up a broken shell.
naming it ocean, we place it to our ears...
as the incoming tide swirls at our feet.
shark fins, and the bodies of dead fish,
the stink of salt, and the rhythm...
lost inside the sound and the roar,
we never notice our footprints washed away....
Impressive write...crisp structural fluxion throughout, astute employment of metaphor.Fine display of free-verse, with(imo) a wee hint of the prosaic as well...Enjoyed the read...FjR
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What do you mean by small minded men? Please explain, Eric..