Upon the slowest night, I stopped
My heart a lyric of beating poems
Because the wind would find me out
I tried to tell my hand to stop
But Beloved, I could not
Apparently with no surprise
I vowed to pen a happy flower
For dark flowers do not know
Their accidental powers
I am no assassin of beauty, no
But a lover of the higher way
That considers himself lucky
No matter fate or consequence
I measure off another day
In stanza, prayer, approving syntax
That never fails, swears, or does not forgive
What came before is no longer 'me'
I am the drifting sentence of death at the door
Upon the slowest night, I stop
In perfect pauseless monarchy
To change and kingdoms of afterwards
I give my script, to write like
A Prince of the Sun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem