Flesh of sows spread over the transoms of
Ghosts,
And the poor men cannot vacation, but look where
I have been,
Up all the mountains and their skirts,
And atop of Alma’s roof; and I’ve had that goddess in
My bed,
While it is almost time to close- The men with great
Big smiles laughing make-believe in the
Exterior sun;
Why they don’t know where it is they go when they
Sleep,
But the places are yet here to remember, echoing,
Echoing and
Measurelessly deep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem