And they were pillaging the threshing floors/
Raising the mischief that had laid forgotten beneath
The winter surrender of an old season/
All awake now, summoned & short out of reason
Warring the past and stricken into the present/
Fabricating a raid below the early morning dew
Into the spring, into the hasten step, into a harmony disrupted/
Hurried I say, the beats and carried thoughts,
Chasing the wilderness into a strike, a force, a deceiving thrust/
Honored by the brush of each stir & lift
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem