Having seen gold in the churches of Spain,
the conquistadors,
inconsolable for want of it,
pursued a gleam visible
across miles of cruel desert,
driving stakes into the earth
that they might make their way home.
Alas, they found only pyrite.
I see a pretty blonde
across a crowded room
or in a lunchtime rush
on the street
and, against reason,
allow my imagination to conjure you,
or more specifically you
as a part of us.
Alas, the asphalt and concrete
of my city
do not lend themselves
to the driving of stakes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lovely poem… the contradictions of life intrigues