Where is the religious eye? Morning is dark.
In Pennsylvania, a tear has left
youngish ducts, and blood has replaced it.
A schoolhouse was cold. In the wind comes more cold,
and comes a nightmare, dank at its edges,
dank as grass smothered under storms,
When blood played a part it never played,
painting the floorboards a crimson no one
desired; leaving lesson plans scarred and drenched.
Everything in Lancaster seems born
under goatmilk skies stretched smoothly out
toward clean homes; curios, too simple for wires,
and breathing like rain in the fields of a broad farm.
It is they who see this, who can grasp a purity,
who believe thoughts are durable as hebrew staffs.
They stamp out memories of unknown mortals.
There is the penchant to live in the smoke of death -
yet there are drawn carriages steeped in sound,
carriages and the mind of Emmanuel,
and the toughened hooves teaching the sound;
a brilliance lives in stalwart value.
Standing against the world will not collapse it:
nor girls, treasurers someone wants to keep,
when the world enters on vile days: they exit nobly.
The sun dies - no sense stays the same,
no measure of curls, or ponytails keeps its color.
Stains were firebrick red. Night negates peace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem