Here is a Wound
Here is a wound, that one which
You have gifted upon me;
And which I know will never heal.
It being forged of a dearness
So unlike myself, crafted of a
Love turned to ashes and the
Breath gone dead out of beauty.
Never again will purple flowers
Grow and fill my summertime soul
With belief in forever, nor peace, nor joy.
The soil on that scarred acre
Of my afflicted heart is barren.
I will sow young seed there yearly
And the sky of my eyes shall
Weep sad tears of many hopeless
Raindrops down upon that dry soil.
The sun beats and weathers me down.
And if you are wondering,
If you wonder of me at all -
Far underneath breeding in me
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe
That should remind me that each March
You will come to destroy my soul.
The aftermath will most likely please you,
As it will be evident you still have a niche
In this desert, after all of this I still
See you as a bright star in the dark night,
Seen through thunderous wall clouds.
My flowers and I shall be nothing,
Be scattered by an early springtime gust,
Then made dry like bleached bone
So that August's heat like a
Fireplace burning pinion wood
should scorch us, leveled by the flame.
I can endure, inasmuch knowing
That the lifted dust of me
Should settle to the earth of you again.
I revel in the pain of this truth:
That a dream can not die,
Yet hopeless devotion will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever in hot pain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem