.... that which determines to survive...to blossom..
in shallow soil....
grazed, twisted by autochthonous blades..
.........they find
any dropp of nourishing rain....
....sip fog's trailing wisps
welcome the sparsest of dews...
.the urine of men
and beasts
gives succor to these tenacious and unprincipled interlopers...
.....Hephaestus' own bugs crawl over and around them....
climb their ironic vines...
yet
.there is no discouraging them.. they have learned to thrive on fire...
they laugh... hold....make the land their own....
....face the spawn of dactyls...
.dance....
spill their seed in turn.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
that's 'drop'...durnitall....