On Building With Stone
To be an ape in little of the mountain-making mother
Like swarthy Cheops, but my own hands
For only slaves, is a far sweeter toil than to cut
Passions in verse for a sick people.
I'd liefer bed one boulder in the house-wall than be the time's
Archilochus: we name not Homer: who now
Can even imagine the fabulous dawn when bay-leaves (to a blind
Beggar) were not bitter in the teeth?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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7/30/2021 10:08:46 AM # 1.0.0.666
Who ever thought it was a good idea to add, to a POETRY site, AUTOPLAY videos? Oh and with SOUND on? Oh and playing commercials with a thumping bass line? Really. And then a -terrible robot voice from 1980's reading, no sorry, BUTCHERING the poetry. My god. Fire your marketing department AND your web designer.