On stormy nights, in blind
visions I tell the crossing wind
the forgotten secrets of my heart.
But as the morning comes, slowly burning down
the comfortable churches of the mind,
I wander again, out into a sun-ashed street,
still whispering secrets in my jumbled days.
I whisper through my stumbling delays,
half-remembering the voices that I meet,
never knowing the faces of those that’ve been most kind
to me under the crooked shadows of the town.
I know that down the stormy passages of praise,
to this faltering ark of darkness,
somewhere the wind-tossed lightning is fluttering down
to my dark eyes…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem