I, Poet of the Abrupt,
do I delight you
before so abrupt
I end the verses and
I end my chant?
My pleasure is delight
Yet my depth be in
the thought
My heart be in the Just
But then must I forget
that last but not the least
I love Beauty too
and for her will vigil
all nights; go hungry;
go thirsty with a parched
throat; sing verse at
her hest parched and sick?
Then know that, my Monsignor
and be advised.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem