Rife with the kites in the air- the inexperienced
Wind blowing anyways,
Over the super markets and estuaries, and the
Young girls gone astray losing themselves
In the grass like emerald ashtrays,
And looking up for no good reason, counting
The good luck of elephants in the clouds,
And the pinstripes of pilots burning their
Showing their armpits for the gods
And bathing in their unabashed visage.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem