In the carcass of the circus
there lay an unburned page
appointing and anointing
another mage upon a stage.
Desperate for a respite on
trestle made of bone, a tyro
with a gyro was spinning
a begin, wrestling with the
shadows amongst the ghosts
of stone, lying like a liar
piling hidden sins;
running from the fate
that grips us all too soon,
exit planet's nectar for
seasons past the moon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem