A winds veil is tangled
at the top of those trees,
and the ashen clouds roll in then.
The alfalfa receives white powdersteps,
while gymnasts hang there tights on swolen branchs.
Crooners hide in bunches behind the maidens reps
Trumpets burried nose over tail wail from Venus haunches.
The mummifires and the widow;
touching the soil were the jackle once hid,
fingering the sea where the ship once lay
off long lost horizons and bitter clandestined nights.
The plague of being this.
Lost at dark growling infinity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem