Oh, Magdalene! How
slight it is, your stutter, as you
kneel before his irreverent feet.
Your vowels have grown
silent-as a split tongue-softly mouthing
your freedoms into the still air.
The whimpers can still be heard, those
vacant cries that lubricate
the hollows of this writhing tunnel.
'I control, ' he says, hanging before you
as dispelled lightning-lovelustlove-fisting
his urgency into his awaiting palm.
Oh, Sacrilege! Oh, Repentance!
Rotten, they are, the forgotten fruits that slide,
ever so easily,
through well-oiled clutches.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice I love how you put things amazing! Lylyanna