Hands Unified
This morning my clock gasps
next to my darkened temple, like
the apple of a revolver that turns
under the trigger finding the bullet
try to find the Nigga;
the moon white, immobile, shows tears,
and is an ye that aims...And I sense how
the great Mystery is locked up in a hostile
and ovoid idea, in a vermilionbullet
Ah, hand that limits, that threatens
behind every door, and that breathes
in every door, and that breathes
in every clock, yield and transfer
Over the grey spider of your frame
another gret hand of light sustains
a bullet in a heart's blue shape
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem