When a metaphor on blessed wings
flies to the heart like Mary’s dove
or when you seek it, you grimed with earth,
in the darkest places of the heart
still you must examine it with a surgeon’s skill;
probe; bleed; question; diagnose
before you ask of it, consent
to grace your magnificat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautifully put M. Yes. Especially in poetry. Sometimes if I reread something of mine that seemed so clear at the time it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Plus ca change! :) t x