To scissor the palm from an azure sky
men come, holding blades, unlikely
Machete taken from a drug lord whose luck
Fell when the tunnel entrance,
Hidden under a bag of cement,
Exposed by agents, neatly ate the inspector
On his ladder. Without characters the story
Becomes a ruse. As, without the fog
Of weather, any night's becomes another.
To be laid low, to suffer on account
Of indulgence. I feel my shoulder for
Wings, find instead tabs of paper
Meant to fold me into this landscape,
Where we sit in a living room
Civil at last, you with your screen
And I with mine.
A commentary on life after watching its happenings and its mundanes from close quarters. Thanks. Without characters the story Becomes a ruse. As, without the fog Of weather, any night's becomes another.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
An interesting story poem with experiences encountered in life. Thanks for posting it here.