The animals brought in,
thin hands cleaned,
lamps lit. The table laid,
blinds drawn, feet washed,
petals swept off stone.
The heart held tight at sunset:
too much red above, the
sky done, blooded.
But waiting till you’ve gone, then
angels pass the bread, wine;
free smiles, easy breath,
crimson running west,
shared salt flowing,
wide grins and toasts,
a claret cup for great loving,
gusts of strong joy,
new candles wild in the dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem