The cotton sheathe
Is shaken by
Immense, fractured
Shrills and heaves;
Lifeless, like a stack
Of serrated cards
I remained there
In a juxtaposition.
I took still photographs
Of the ravage;
The enraptured fire
And the encumbered ebb
Of ripples.
A silent coil
Makes so much
Noise inside.
A visceral turbulence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem