New evaporations do little enveloping the clouds
With tulle—
With hearts of evaporated shell, singing of
Ghost mothers and ghost girlfriends,
As little feet get lost on the road to sunset again—
Stumbling amidst the cenotaphs of
Conquistadors amidst the orchards of
Pornography again—
What will they ever tell their mother—
Of what fireworks will their blindness sing,
If they should ever make it home?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem