Wave on wave these houses
yearn each for their testimonies'
their sepulchres shovel—tick tocks
In the moonlight, midnight, back to back
In one of those; deepest unpicked locks—
only a poet Houdini might be equipped for.
Stretching, elongated sideways,
like an old oak coffin lid—cradled
with him inside it: he takes a peek outside.
Beneath; the heavily backed maroon drapes
dawn's light defuses, within his strained eyes.
It flusters with those exposures, innermost:
Those drowning, porous, expressions
How sadly, longing his bloodshot eyes
Dispel those spacious vacuous mysteries
That comes eternally too him only.
In black and white
Just as alarmingly, damningly, annoyingly,
as when a bats wing on a'
Stars beam ashen gets nipped in the bud.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem