All of the stellar hubbub passes above us
At work,
Ephemeral necklace,
Heavenly spokes over our grinding shoulders,
Eyes chaliced to the ground,
Expecting the motions
Pre-ordained—
We have stopped waiting for the miracle
Of recreation.
Placed into a fit of numbers,
Our days given to a society of succubi
And we linger,
Souls of the prune
While the heavens go floating- jobless-ether—
The tits of the mountains blacken
And shrink into speculation,
School children like ants through the passing
Days—
Latchkeys into the vulpine caves
Of the woebegone canyons-
And the blind goddess in the shrinking stars
Is less than the memory of a shineless beacon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem