The dusk was dawning
Her tender feed were weary
Of fighting an endless
Unconquerable sand
That promised her
Dry throat
Pure water in a forever
Short distance
All day long.
Her usual short
Five walk case
For fire-wood
Became six…seven…
…ten her age
Seemed ancient
Then the night wolf
Came earlier
Dressed in a sheep’s skins
& armed with well trained
Fork tongues
That promises
Light to any lost lamb
But gives wilderness
That darkens bright lamps
Her purple rose
Was filmed all night long
But her shaking strength
Tightened seconds to seconds
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem