Bequest
-
And so it is
Futile.
Speak to me of newborn pillars –
Shrieking tenants of sacrifice.
Erudite men care not for
These babbling crimson
Streams –
It continues.
Speak to me
Of finite desperation,
Of shrill commiseration
With merciful oblivion.
Surveyors plodding on
Through shreds of humanity –
Contaminated, murky rivers:
Speak to me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yo Spence, I'd sure like to speak to you.....but what is it that is being bequeathed? Talk to me! ! Cheers. Subroto