Other than body of woman,
the grace of wine
and words that leap between minds,
is stasis only, unhuman;
in disciplined line
the days would stretch to gray death.
Heroes and ants, you may grovel
before the grubs
that feed to breed the new slaves,
who obediently will shovel
a hole for me
among your similar graves.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Fine work, Mr Roche. You have a way with words. Thanks for the pleasure of reading a well-wrought poem.