After the apple’s plucked from the tree, and upkicked clay dust settles,
Two lovers sit: somber, engaged with shame, drinking bodies on a higher level.
Running from calamity, fugitives from languor and bliss,
Two lovers hover a moment, landing a kiss, eyes level.
Flesh tuned to toil and pangs, to plow and labor,
Two lovers uncover worlds hidden beneath a deeper level.
Dewed with cool sweat, flushed with red pain,
Two lovers surrender to new birth; little gods of some lower level.
Heads to the ground, catching the sound of blood screams,
Two lovers shudder and know man has set his proper level.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem