Then they have another song for you—
As their fingers are dying—
Spiders exhumed alongside the traffic:
As the same sun flickers
Torrentially—then you know it is him
And he will never awaken into you:
This song is your pilgrimage I write from
My gut, like tadpoles wishing
To metamorphosis into you, knocking:
Don’t you know they are here:
All of your princes, waiting for you to
Let them into their truest form with’
Kisses,
As it rains over your shoulders when you
Take a fieldtrip to the museum—
Until another day is over,
And you return to the deformity you take
Every night in bed with him.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem