All of it is imperfect, and I am almost home:
I have been found out to be a girl by the macho stags
With their machetes and flashing their grins
At all of their impossible wives,
Like you, Alma:
Wont you ever come over again to study and hold my
Hand- I think that you won’t,
But I love you, and I love your children, And I wish you knew me
Better and my footpaths through the deep young mountains,
Because I have seen the lower sleeps there of god and his contingencies
Of winged agitations:
I was born on this mountain, Alma, but before this time
I had never thought of or even knew your name;
And my craft is bankrupt and corrupt, Alma, but I would die on this
Mountain for you Alma,
Speechless and emolliate, just to count all the frighten birds weeping
From the indistinguishable power lines in your eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem