What is the nature of
this sacrifice?
Perception's doors pried
open wide...
I have no bartender's skill
in pharmacy,
but for one brief measured hour,
forgive me,
in hook-or-crook, intimate
touch with infinity.
This is saved for a time
that hasn't arrived...
so far, the coast is clear.
May my sullen nature
arouse your rapidity,
tease you with gleams
of hard-bought intensity.
I would be mad, but
the Moon has sufficiency
to fill its lunatic quotient
this century.
This soul that mocks itself
is watched from steps unseen.
Great luminaries of thought
are strangely in want, this evening.
I dine on a crust, but
find fulfillment in this:
life and thought must wane,
but bargain bravely to persist.
Tomorrow, hopeful and fair,
is the dream I dream with Summer sages.
I dream myself here, beside you, too,
if only to share, multum in parvo,
my comeliest trifles, and
minor marvels.
Mother Chaos showers
her usual disdain,
yet again sadly smiles
as she lets me off easy.
These are the 'glorious tidings'
whose name
I cannot utter discreetly:
ambling so long on this
path of contrition,
dragging one naked word
from its birth-pangs, home,
through your kindly
editorial intervention.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem