This is the world our actions find a home.
Here the forward and then back,
that sideways bob and weave,
the plucky up and down;
for these are the ways
intentions find their means:
half-gone by tried endeavour
and lost when all's complete.
But here at home it's strictly possible
and open to our fearful view
that this force of things,
this thrust of aims,
may plunge gasping, kicking in its quickness-
tripped up by corpses lounging ground.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I see unreality and reality in close proximity in your poem.