Not even a shift in the night
Or a bass chuka chuka,
They will minstrelize the humble sellers
Of shrunken, dusty oranges
Maybe a bad mouth
Passed words to the birdman
To crack open the sky,
A black walnut, half brain
A burnt ball of string;
Bags of sudden song
Hot and hot and hot;
Nothing to put back together.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem