Puddles of tin, rains of lead
Flowers harden to plates
Of silver, gold, white and red,
All embellished in their states
Of a wise man's nonsense;
The child's who I have grown to be
And now a man beyond sense
Under what maturity glorifies liberty
Makes a universe for our solitude,
Alive only through the irony of the Brother
—The Lawless Lovers and the divine mood
Of the transparent embryo of their Mother.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem