And went to one of the Glory Temples for which
our city is famous & found
a sick congregation - spitting blood
& convulsing obscenely, only the shepherd
of this flock not afflicted, & outside, lined up,
waiting - dog carts for the dead, but where
were the dogs? Out chasing
some silly fox, I assumed, & was correct
as the huntress, when I finally found her,
was sitting on a log surrounded by hounds, tails
wagging, the corpse of some poor fox
in her lap. "Hi," she said, "I'm
Dot Com & of course
you've come for the dogs." Obediently
they followed me back to the church
& were duly harnessed & off we set
for the burial ground to which, luckily, for it
was getting dark, the shepherd knew the way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem