The eyes laden with mushroom clouds
miss a silver or golden shaft
what arches across only a martial heart.
The minds clothed in only whitish fungi
grow little any flowers or fruits
maybe wait for a wrapper of moist moss.
Lotus eater quills vomit milky vomits
wearing wisdom apron of imagery plumes
and lick around a candyfloss of kiddy dreams.
A serenade in a personal soiree
adds little to daily tragedy
in which a soldier fights and may fall to black comedy.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem