By chance one morn I wandered south, gently lulled by gusty thanes
and sipped from yesterday’s brimful cup, lusty and dripping on today’s;
As if in some dream, sun-stroked paddock. Where night turned to day, and never the two in loathsome pact would trade.
Salvation lies in a bird’s wings, not queued for in robed brimstone
And bricks entombed, nor credence given in paltry prayer,
To ears unlobed and lidless stare.
While birdsong, oft forgotten, in sermon from the oaken spires,
Fortifies my senses in the starved shadows,
Through chirpen’d verse snuck canvassed meadow
That I might simply breathe, and sit merry with my spectral kin,
Unchained from pallid woe and binary thought,
Fain submit to time stream caught
Thou were not taught to save souls through easeful melody, but in
cooed innocence dwell’st such ceremony,
And truth untold; to return again in body, and bound now too in soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem