All month this country has careened toward cold
and winter's celebrations: what a star
announced—a birth—and then a chance to fold
a year away, pull one fresh from the drawer,
if not clean, well, unworn. in just a few
months arrives the ice-hot day of the dead-
come-back-to-life—time then to ask how new
and re- beginnings differ. mary bled
for the december miracle, as some-
one must. did you imagine sacrifice
as you called the crips to life? did they come,
those youngbloods, at the crackling of your voice,
like lazarus to christ? vigilant night.
on the road to san quentin, candlelight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem