The clock speaks
The unutterable morning,
Verve with the breath spawning
Hope – elegiac hope,
The trees are not silent
Standing by the fences, arms like tridents,
The rapacious, cold drizzled wind
Crawls cautiously underneath
The aluminum folds of doors
-
The night is exultant as it turned
Another page of swathing defeat,
And so to fill a man, shall one fill his soul
With the liquor sifted away from
Ripe blessed, sun-kissed abundances
Wringed from swollen necks,
I am filled with the liquor of the night,
And I am drunk by the turning of dusk to dawn –
Perennial bliss, come no further, higher than a sigh’s altitude
Hallowed, the saintly monikers, with this abandonment,
There is plenitude within.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem