Thoughts move
like free radicals
at different levels, at different times
to carve, to destroy
to put up their signatures on walls
to seek authority and wealth
to catch the sex and glory,
in perpetual chase.
Miss the shadow of moon,
miss the stars.
Here we go, here we sleep.
Only religion is desire,
only drama is hate.
We will set them on fire,
all the bees
all the wasps.
No insect will live
only us, the human beings.
Arrival of fever
entery of death
we are puppies
we are stones.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
She spreads her legs with a slow eloquence that speaks of an ease independent of the science. Her clothes were once alive. Geometry gives in to grace. Memories are put flat on pages in the form of mazes that rats cannot solve.