I have journeyed to a place
From which I find there’s no escape
The essence of my arteries
Tells me my blood unlikely frees
Me from this so unlively spot
Til I have ground the perfect dot
Upon the table of the writing
Through the fuss, the fury, fighting
Just to state my meager effort
Sprout the wings a bird of feather
Grind my snout into the dirt
A grunt a huff no proper word
Can come to me in moment now
I might as well become a cow
Or moss upon a shining rock
The way I sing the way I talk
What sense of mine can I convey
But pass the feelings on the way?
Through awkward script and jotted note
The fasted form the formless bloat
The efforts I have taken measure
Distance of my pain and pleasure
Mark my spot no more than dung
Which turns to earth reborn unsung
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem