We are immersed in memory holes,
those pilgrimages to optimism,
journeying over peaks
to mountain bogs
where ancestors percolate
through the thin
skin of our world
like old skulls permeating
the dry spine of our forgetfulness;
here are passage graves in red clay
rubbed to the bone while
we saunter to
& fro over the bridges
of history.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A really fantastic poem, like it, a great write. May i invite you to read my new poem called, From The Grave.