Beautiful it is to be another while
Anonymous beside the sea:
Beautiful words happening from the monuments of
My destroyed body:
Roiling up through the pores of a session of long nights
And windmills of tattoos:
Going overboard, and licking their wounds all the way
Down the Grandest canyon of the ants:
Drawing the blood like the sacred swords from them
That my father never drew-
And then standing like the tiniest man inside a forest
That grows up to the heavens,
Where the angels are doing their laundry just like
My mother across the blue sheaths of
Comets and moonlights:
The waves like wild horses collecting their blue ribbons
From their tiniest and most unsurest of bedrooms:
Soon they will be up there to meet her,
But what will they see: and what will they say to her
As they go down together,
Back into their brotherly world, to breakfasts, gossips,
And sleeps.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem