Lately, I too felled my chestnut tree,
without a burring saw or a fixing winch,
but by balmy eyes and burning effrontery.
Tree-old and gnarled, a blaring galleon,
lumbered to dust; wailing, screeching
to a false lore of a powdery eon.
Clobbered to pieces, sized to desire,
twined in bundles, sold in souks,
The tree was lost in the purser’s mire.
When you heightened stakes, my soul keeled
to wager on & on the horn of plenty,
when chips fell-wanton we fouled,
wanton we felled.
My trace, my trail, my grasp, my gale,
my nub, my knit, my trenchant wit,
felled all like scales, in chestnut’s trail.
If you want more, I shan’t strut,
for Im your thrall, yet reckoned free,
but come not to my orchard for a crunchy nut,
for I’ve just felled my chestnut tree.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.