The infant’s first cry
heralds a harvest of words.
As separate senses unwind
he hugs the burial cloth
of his swaddling clothes.
To purify, refine
his lifelong funeral oration
he wanders in search
of the words of his heart
through catacombs of time
each step another false start.
With calloused hands
he eventually bends
in a harvested cornfield of words
and weeps where the mystery began.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem