THE messiahs nostrils flared,
his crusted hands fold into
a cross,
GOD he thinks, is moving him
towards the front line.
HIS eyes search for the time,
his mouth, belching black
smoke, soon he thinks, a new
pope will arrive, and he can
move on.
THE messiahs body starts to
fade, as the money, and houses
start to pour in,
GOD he thinks, is moving him
toward the front line, his eyes
search for the time, his
mouth belches white smoke,
finally he thinks, i can go
home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
DREAMING, IN THE A.M