The hot wind rushes up from the south
And the dust of its feet is a shroud to swathe
Round warrior, tree, and trembling leaf.
Choked with chaff and the stones that rust
For the bold wheat berry is an empty husk;
Child and mother and warrior ‘bowelled,
Lie in the dust as the butchers laugh.
Ah — when shall I see (for the clouds that blind me)
The sharp green leaf and the warriors fiery?
Thrust from the dark, their spears impale me,
Hung like a harp in a string-stirring storm.
The melds that adze to the axe once more
And sweetly sing the feathered arrows,
Quenched in the juice the runs from the maw
Of a carrion gorging deep in the meat
Of tyrants dead on the field of vengeance.
Then laughs the brazen quiver’s mouth,
Emptied at last of its silver teeth.
(1995)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem