I've studied it,
Looked inside its vowels,
Examined consonants as if they were pyramids,
Like they held a secret
We can only see with x-ray.
But in the end, all I have is my little catechism
Given to me by a blind priest
Who rode an elephant into town,
And the ghost of Joachin Rodrigo —
Whose fingers peeled down strings
Of a guitar like seagulls
Leaping off a cliff.
And here's heaven's little flashlight
In a last cave of Hell—
Like his moist, violinist's finger
Rubbing the rim of a glass.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem