Not the subways of the moon
Could equal the stench
Made by a zillion murmuring phantasms
Chiming with chaos rescrambled
An ancestral undersea roaring
Severing, canceling, neutering
The swelling stuttering beasts
Back to the first one
As the shocking shouting stink
Made by time running backwards
A vast muttering of Paradise undone
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem