Your natural place
in the universe
is lying supine
in fields of wheat
in my brain, and occasionally
on city rooftops at night.
Though contrary to this
your natural state
is of chaos and your natural
mode is of a destroyer
of moral goods.
I am forced to believe
that it is only natural
that you are what is pulling
the universe apart,
and that you are behind
all the mysteries of existence;
that somewhere
you have hidden the scrolls
of gravity and of space-time.
Your final natural cause is to
scour though the sylvan verdure
of my brain,
and to burn down
every thought, every inkling
that you may be
something other than
the worst of all humanity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem