watched invisibly by their elders from behind makeshift drapes
over broken sidewalks, up stoops, through windowpanes,
past the blinds of lids, corneas, the iris's radial curtain
runs the image, through the lens
standing on its side, to be solved by the brain declaiming
'All is well; all will be well'-
why, not to acknowledge this picture
or hear these hatchery songs
is to overlook the limbic of life, itself!
Oh, teeming ages- image pleasant enough, this:
many worse offer themselves as grist
for contemplation;
So, I'll go with it- the Spring, the song and all...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
nice contemplation Morgan. Verse one needs cleaning up.