In the expanding swamp,
Dusk burns leaves
Into shadow ashes,
And gold ribbons,
The confetti of a rebirth,
As a returning hunter
Peeks at sky's
Bonfire swooping
Down with a pitch soot
Of night and a zigzagging
Heron finds
A home in the muzzle
Of the hunter's thumb
On a far-sighted trigger.
His empty bag
Is swelled by the catch
To hang down
The broken spine
Of a spider-faced man
Drowning in night's showers
Of falling soot.
As night stretches
Long arms across earth,
A dead lotus
Sinks to its fetus
In the swamp's womb
Stretching out
Roots down its floor
To raise back
The withered lotus
Into morning's flashlight,
The hunter's face
Beaming with a full-blown
Flower of a bag
Filled up by a timely pop.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem