I’ve cried upon the rusting shoulder-blades
Of the airplanes that
Are not here—
Going back and forth—
All a glow in the statutory hallucinations
Of a bivouacked—soldiered all together
Of a dream
Of a murder—
Words whom are rolling off an inebriated tongue—
A million miles and
On top of mountains—
Going, or trying to go,
Like rose bushes where they should have
Belonged-
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem