This is not water running here,
These thick rebellious streams
That hurtle flesh and bone past fear
Down alleyways of dreams
This is a wine that must flow on
Not caring how or where
So it has ways to flow upon
Where song is in the air.
So it can woo an artful flute
With loose elastic lips
Its measurements of joy compute
With blithe, ecstatic hips.
Wine will always flow, bringing temporary joy at least. A joy I now reject.
these poems are dark AF
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Barack im cheating on you with your countee