Sun blasted bags, throned on leather carcasses hold up the withered mirrors of heaven,
Contoured, wrapped and sagged around gaunt cheeks,
Ashamed, abused and bleached by fire,
Etched, torn, worn and scabbed,
Thrown, blown, desired and despaired,
A film of beauty, a film for the impaired.
A suit worn by dictators, slaves and the damned alike,
Their Rose mountains gabbed from park to scowl,
Bridging minds with talk of Byron and howl,
Making the merry go round, sucking turpentine,
Freeing the suit of all convictions and giving in to the murk soil.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very enjoyable edge to your words, thanks