we were smoky.
looking roiled and tumbled.
I like ink patch
laying in the folds
of a cloud shifting, coiling.
undulating, as ones still stained
on their undersides
by a new risen sun,
we writhed in our sky...
flinched and shuttered
to beget drunken appearing lightning,
that staggered down through murky air
to strike savagely
on our pinnacle.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem