Twitterpated on death,
Flies know so many lips;
They may not get her message,
But they love her tasty gist.
2.
Mathematicians of chaos sing a plague,
In pestilent orchestras castanet her head,
Until what is unfinished becomes revealed,
Moon-lit, contented.
….
They carry their instruments in rain-slicked
Cases, under shoulder-
Go home to empty kitchens and beg for more;
They will only live for a fortnight,
But will always adore that woman still grinning
From under the crescent hills.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem