All those tales told in
days of spittle and bone,
links of ether hiding
yawning void’s kind drone;
tricky questions glisten on
the tongue of a lunatic,
swizzled thinking
drinking leaking;
forever midnight in
the hall of teeth
and lips of leeches
tripping past the last
casket at the factory
of tragedies
with eyes
like tongues to
mug the form
and lies like
dung that hug
the swarm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A textbook display of contemporary free verse...Mellifluous structural movement throughout...Stellar crafting ~FjR~