I dreampt of a red pavilion
on a straw-yellow field
blurring in the holy light
of the sun's timeless beating.
Bare toes curling to the
bite of hollow stubble
I heard the thin blue wind
squeal fear off a jet's wing
and muttering cow-bells
Un-English as contrition.
Spilt blood soured to a stink
and power bellowed slick as death.
No horseman came.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This reminds me of a harvested wheat field when I was a kid.Thanks.