I have got the lines rising
For beauty is the dots punctured to grace
I have got the fleece and the crown
The flags hoisted to hope
I am he with bronze sandals
And silver stealth
I toll in joy resonating
With symphonies of a forgotten tale
I swing the thunder bolt
And surf the white clouds
I ski the Snow Mountains
With twangs to retune my passage
I bed the moon at eve'
And cuddle the million stars at night
I make home at sea's ripples
With minor bars to reclaim my essence
I am the message of the heralded
And the rhythm of slumbering gods
I speak furry like finished diphthongs
Seeping at the rim of a mild syllable
I am a god with flutters of roses to show
I am a king with castles of hay
And pawns to rule
I am a man burning in the last rites of the cigarettes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem