Look at all the fancy people,
Drinking wine, passing time
French-tipped women dance madly
Underneath the spinning moonless sky
And the men, with elegant black poise,
Carry these women by the hand,
Their smiles contained the luster
Of all the stars where lost men are trapped
-
Look at all the drunken people,
Lifeless by a black suede chair
Where the lunar tail blows,
A tender air of ecstasy,
I watched them sully themselves
And sleep underneath empty bottles
Ashes and wine reek from their slightly parted mouths
As if to kiss another moment in the clarity
That never contrasts itself from sinister bellows
And hallowed sun light
-
Moonless; or the absence of the Sun
I never know much about the world’s conspiracies
Or the portentous shades of a transient bliss
To have lived in their revelry,
And to have died in their misery
Perhaps euphoria is nothing I can suffer gladly –
I tried to breath through thick mists
And suspended my dreams, grand in content
But revolting in its portent
I have long been searching for ebullience
Underneath the pillows,
The rear view of a waterfront,
Inside the drizzle,
Eye of a savage storm,
Or the picturesque nature and tapestry
And the slithering creatures upon a vineyard
One never told me it would be this hard
-
Laying lissome on a gossamer cloud,
It sings of a reverie that I have heard once
From the lips of some stranger whom I asked
To take me out in the day, and sleep with me in the night
White light took away what promise I held
Beneath the immense twilight and modest equinox –
So I vowed to stay within close polarities
Juxtaposed to grief and other miseries
And I curse the Gods for being harsh, cruel and unsparing
For it would appear that heaven has bearings
If faith could assume waves, then mine would be weak
Upon the shorelines, because there is a portion of my soul
That refuses to seize the Sun that escalates through my forehead
-
To where I wait for the Sun to rise,
The Sun seems to eschew my face,
Is there something wrong with me?
Is my éclair faint and pallid?
Is my soul a maudlin and sordid?
Is my face disheveled and squalid?
Some finicky God dare tell me,
At the very overture of a prose,
Or beneath the thorns of a dying rose,
Tell me, why can’t any of these enigmas
Assuage what clamor my soul holds in between miasmas
Of the Sun, and the cloying debris of the Moon,
The tears of the stars and the shards of the clouds,
-
If my fate is inexorable,
If my wounds should eviscerate every after preamble
Of kind lip after another, every farce word over tongues
Then where should I slumber away from this perdition?
Then I know a place, perhaps to love is a curse,
There, in one silent land
Where no moon sets ablaze,
No Sun singes in a raze,
Where the stars shine in disgrace,
There I slumber, away from all the fancy people –
Do not wake me up just to call my name,
And tell me, “There’s more to this.”
I apologize, if there’s one acquaintance I know,
Then it had to be the abyss,
And its beautiful premises
A labyrinthine collapse of hopes
Of dreams, of make-believe narratives
Yes – there, a moonless sky,
A soulless Sun, heartless stars – all of them weep
For one soul that’s dead asleep
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem