"Exiled
To the ground,
Engulfed
In contempt,
Framed
By giant wings,
A footstep
Is hard
To attempt"
The poet
Went to kiss the stars good night
From the immensity
Of the remoted field
Cold and doubt
Stubbed his heart and sight
And devastation
Floated unsealed
Into his moonlight stroll
Along the river
Thoughts burned like fire
On the fine hot sand
And helplessness,
Corrosive like a shiver,
Venom and fear
Poured upon his hand
You, poet,
Made of Stone and of Wind,
Of Sound of Horn
Reordering Our Feeling,
The grain of dust
Your palm and soul tinned
Will turn the stars you kissed
Into a ceiling
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem