They're church is grey to make them run
in a golden hex full of horns
and douse the carousel that drips in fatigue
with blows of the clock above the lakes.
Each sliver climbs a bundle of claymores
and its particle dreams in it's still flu
the hooves of the oceans stream in cancers
as they break on the filament display.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem