Oregon, I remember you. The way your
trees were unregretful and made imploring love
to the rounded breasts of the sky.
Tumble down to Portland in a jeep and
see men so poor they have no home standing in
line for soup. Standing in line for hymns, hope, a place
without razor blades and naysayers to sleep.
Tumble down to Portland and see the questions in
their faces, the lost yet the found.
The lines of mankind are long. No one to hold your place.
Glisten in the evening rain, your blackened slicker coat ice cold.
Travel down purple hills to the wisdom of the ocean water. Rocks
like rugged teeth set back into a wilderness.
Walk along spiraling ridges trying to leave your
old name behind and find the knew one you hope
to be too tired and blessed to deny.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem