(i)
Alone a stone
in a forest,
a roar devours me
before I see
a lion's face,
storm in its eyes.
Like a splayed fire
in puffs
smoldering,
a windy hearth
spinning beneath,
I stand
in my brewed
volcano
deepening
into a blacksmith
dressed in silver
streams flowing
down his raised
temple and cheekbones
into red bowls
of coals, his bellows
flipping out
arrows of wind
to redden clusters
of a crimson
and scarlet glow.
(ii)
I figured out
how hot
a lion's tongue spun
in its fiery mouth;
how hot
in gold flames,
when tufts
of grass
spun ruby and carnelian,
as a man's fright
spirals into red
diamonds and jasper.
And hope
is built
into a beast growling
in me,
towering
into a lanky dragon,
a mantis
in tall boots striking
big and red fires
with one punch.
(iii)
When a lion
flips out red arrows
from a devouring
flame of rolled
and spun eyes,
hurl out to grind man
into ashes,
stick your head
into its mouth
to kill your fright.
When confronted
with a roar,
roar louder than thunder
to devour the beast.
When fire waves
lion tails,
whisk a mantis'
limbs over
a pile of brown
trash wearing
a lion's mane,
as a beast swirls
in ochre
and tawny old garbage
wearing the glossy
mane of dust-woven
fibers, the debris
of your splayed fright,
a lion eaten up
by a mantis' limbs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem