A conquesy of broken glass
in a march along the border
of clock-faces
cuts through stone walls
into chaotic specks of sand.
Among the salty dust
and the dusty salts
the cells are numb,
patient for roads
from glaciers to caves.
With every step beginning
scarred feet
regenerate by inertion.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Write comment. Such a nice poem, Denis. Read my poem, Love and Iust. Thanks