At the foot of the
burning candle, a dancing
shadow gives you a call.
In moment of
hubris, all chandeliers
will crash and prehistoric dirt
will cling to hairy legs.
The taste of berries
was changing. In deep
autumn only skeletons
talk.
Near the lamp
festival, we will watch
the leaking sky. The
aliens would have the last laugh.
The time turns
back the clocks. The
defiant mood will bring out
the beautiful masks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
That was quite a second stanza. I love your interesting mix of images you present here...so vivid and challenging to make the connections.