I see Marc through the windscreen
hunched over a cone of sparks
and you wonder at the short life
of each, none survive to pass
on a morcel of kindling, yet alone
a flame. Who is to blame when extinction
is proof of communion and still spurts
the red fountain as I search
for some law that governs this flaw
these sparks jet out in one direction
and die in tumbling chaos, its what happens
inbetween that goes unseen
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem