Like your brother who got killed so far away,
By sharks or trains-
I don’t care- I only weep for my own solicitations:
I’ll cut down any unsuspecting tree in the lips of forest
To be my tannebaum;
I’ll decorate as I please, turning my back against the
Balmy traffic;
Because it is so difficult to find truth in what the
Soul has to say,
Jogging lethargic through its socialized parks, meeting
Old friends and sharing their likeminded adulteries;
But I believe, I will steal the wine from
Her husband- and the dog might speak, and if I
Click my heels high enough up on these swings,
I will surely fly,
And skip school and migrate over the lactating heads of
Wounded tourists- and all their unspecial cities;
Go where I please, hold my breath and visit the feral
Continent deep beneath the untrustworthy sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem