The bell has chimed long in wonder
On earth’s ponderous esplanade
Yet I bear my injuries
On the armpit of patience
In the quiet hours of silence
Moon on monocle
Discerns the certitude of soul damage
In the rooms of silence
Where the thieves have left
With loots of man’s common laughter.
Hide up your virtue man
Away from their unsweated sickles
Draw up your axes against their union
Until we storm the street of silence
With the wonder of our giant thunders.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem