Love came, & showed me the bottom of its foot, as it
stood above me with Sir Henry Morgan's
pose, pushing my head to the depth of the
ground, to shake me from my tomb-stoned
perception & find back my roots, that it-'Love'-
isn't the emanation of poetry. Yes our notions of
what we thought love is, has sheathed us from
being poets we should be, broken hearts has
disguised us to call ourselves Poets just because
the affliction after affection has had altered our
inner being, but based from that sand-concrete
foundation do you call yourself a Poet whence his
praise emanates from an infection of vain
anticipations?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem