At that impasse of grace
let there just be a blowfly
gazing outwards into space
gazing upon two ardent lovers
in an island-cut-off place.
They're-given-no phantasmal birth-
wright of kings, given only
two-small velour moth wings
of an ochre yellowing earth
that reciprocity-of-a nuptial bed
essential to all nocturnal birds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem