please send me not to words
hatched out in tidy flowerpots;
in vistas, tight confined,
by gently smiling, petty minds:
for I would rather have real pain
remind me I'm alive, again;
would feel the wolves pretentious breath
upon my cooling heels, at rest,
than still life death, of stiff windmills:
man did not come to rule this age
by living freed, of fear and rage.
please send me not to find
micro words of smallish minds,
who dream of laundry in the breeze;
of winks and smiles; uncovered sneeze.
I think I have lived long enough;
don't need life's bones, all covered up;
don't guild vultures with tuxedo airs;
don't cover eyes, to avoid stares.
let life infuse blood, in the mix;
don't hide the real, with cheapening tricks,
for life is best digested, taken rare.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem