It was otherness which bothered me:
nothing happened otherwise.
Brisk and upright
He failed penultimately.
I still hear the footfalls
of circumstances,
of retreated sounds.
The hidden fire lights up
I squirm in pain.
The canopy of false rumors
falls on dirty road.
His gangrene was evident;
still he walked with a glow,
all alone, but listening to howling
and surveying the floods of tears.
A single argument
lifts the tanned skin
displeases the mob
and abandons the search.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Victory was his. The torches touched the sky. The lion made not the least mewling of approval. Then his thoughts were held in the delicate fingertip embrace of the homes of innumerable arachnids. The clock was never wound.