Of the black abyss &
Hair-shirt gall, sulfur
Smoke & blood?
In the silence
At the back of the bus
The Black Shirts' howl of
“Hail, Fuehrer! ” blossoms in my disappointment
Like a gunshot wound,
Like an open sore,
Embracing my heart
In a vine of icy razor wire
What hands reach out?
What voices in tongues
Call me to communion,
To sup, to wine, to dine?
In a sweating iron garden
Under eternity
I crawl backwards
Through a vague & savage darkness,
Into an uncivilized place
Where freedom is impossible
And Shiva, blue-skinned creator, destroyer
Sits in eternal padmasana &
A leopardskin loincloth,
Eyes half-lidded,
Contemplating the ages:
An untamed void deeper than time
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An unbelievably rich synthesis of images. This inspiring masterpiece is going on my favorites list! ! Thank you for sharing your vision.