It hurts that your pain is gone from my day,
While the cataracts still dive across the banishing eyes
Of cars;
The puppy moves in your lap little tears:
Childless, what will have to prove, when the day is over,
And the motel occupied,
The beds spindled like pregnant mothers or
Hippopotamuses for
Christmas,
And all of the countries left; the sweet savannah deployed,
The blush gone from the jungles,
And all of it is the question moving on a rush through the
Orange groves,
While the fort lies abandoned underneath the infinitely
Magnified clouds,
Green and building, waiting for the manless cannons to
Hearken.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem