Today, from the skybox
the clouds convene
merging the cumulonimbus lips of cottonmouths.
They gather courage in numbers
as they prepare to eat the sun.
While launching a pre-emptive strike
they attack omnipotence with the familiar rhythm
of the hobnailed clicking goosestep,
but they burn and blister
their arrogant puffed-up lips to the third degree.
With scorched tongues and hands held high
to cover their scarred faces,
they roar aloud with the cry of thunder
begging for a cold rain
to cool the passion of their chauvinistic presumption.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem