The people are going back inside and I have a family
Who isn’t really here:
I suppose that we can look through all of the churches in their
Great divides,
Or we can look through the evidence of our blue bed sheets:
Alma, you were right here-
And what was there that was figured out: that you didn’t love me,
And the rain clouds built such a sad and stodgy kingdom straight
Up to the doors of guilt
Where our better brothers were made all of gold,
And we had to lay quiet and listen to all the boring stories that they
Paid to be told.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem