Pulled by the beauties of shadows,
Chasing brightly coloured feathers in the wind;
Many paths calling to be followed,
Many longing eyes on the king.
Visions in the loins of the moment,
Sensual consciousness of scented herbs,
Leaks of energy, hands of torment;
Visions of shepherds and herds.
A ring, and many crooked fingers,
Beacons of Ero's consent;
A throne in a field of vipers;
The giants' contest, a midget's contest.
Mixed wine savoured in secret;
Different tastes and a thirst for difference,
Familiar like the street creed;
A crowned head, a slave of influence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem