a river full of dead pigs
a burning moon
a child squatting in mud
was that it then, just that?
no trace of birth
or a cold tuber that might
seek helplessly your hands
wet with drops from a rusty tap
fingernails dark and underlined
that follow the trace of a fleeing star
an escape into the big black
over the wall, over the wall
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very compelling write which held my interest throughout. I enjoyed the easy flow of the material. Excellent work.