Myth Poem by Michael Burch
Myth
Here the recalcitrant wind
sighs with grievance and remorse
over fields of wayward gorse
and thistle-addled lanes.
And she is the myth of the scythed wheat
hewn and sighing, complete,
waiting, lain in a low sheaf—
full of faith, full of grief.
Here the immaculate dawn
requires belief of the leafed earth
and she is the myth of the scythed grain
golden and humble in all its weary worth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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6/7/2024 6:24:34 AM # 1.0.0.1119
