A summer evening in a tribal home
dream when incarnated by the flute
The youth of the blood shines bright
text of the breath when entreated upon
dazzling milestone for the weary travelers
Yet it expands into the rhythm idyll
embracing the grief by leaf of reeling green
Sweating rancor by the call of the iffy vale
Breath respires by own reason yet bequeathed
hardly when hurried felt or heard ever
Fear or thrills as reasons never wrought
I simply embark upon their flux of smiles
Fear when flossed by the truth as intoned
Mirth when ramifies to its room of reason
Yet the dew falls by the night’s dream
Knowing all reasons of survival sovereign
Still they love to lie low by their lone gods
as voices slowly expends into mystic within
they swear and smear the earthly dusts
Upon their forehead of their minions
knowing everythinghs yet has its own god
Looking to the door lest the sky above
voices when myth by their own god.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The title itself is so reflective…man whether tribal or civilized live by some faith…Myths generate faith, mirth and control fears.. The atmosphere you have build in these lines is full of rustic imagery…very classic and soothing..