The scything blade of a blood moon eclipse
Reaps a bale of twine-ligatured days
Nights tumble away, face cards tossed
From the magician's prosthetic hand
But the empty scale cannot unweigh
The child of a woman unborn no matter
How many witches curdle their broth
With a prophecy birthed by a bard.
Is it so difficult for a glass eye in the hand
To see what the tongue cannot speak?
Why parade then your clowns like
Trumpeter swans pillowed high
On the barge of the River Styx?
One-eyed jesters still prophecy
that cataclysms will devour
all of yesterday's good intentions
while they hide their gold in
gunny sacks laid on the skeletal backs
of emaciated cows. Seven, in fact.
If you smell sawdust, it might be a revival
Or it could be the circus, only the
Elephants can tell. But I'll trade you
Your ticket for a magical bean,
When placed in the socket
Of a giant's left eye, it will grow
You a vine, a magical vine,
And take you away
to a bloody red moon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem