When light looks me straight in the eyes,
and says you are no son of mine:
and the years are not a healer, but hiding places.
Then know with my heart on which you sleep,
like in summer's past, that i am still in love with a time
when the world wasn't changing. Was not changing
its large stained glass windows of perpetual daytime,
to the final chambers of tambourine plastic darkness:
and sacrifice did not have to believe everything made of light.
It was like the mirrorettes were words written in cold perfume.
Because colors have mastered geometry since the ocean
only gets drunk on oil anymore. All the while begging the moon
for protection, like one day i am going to come back for my wings
along the roadways of the winds. Along that double chin of the sky
and those bright blue pupils spilling music, like a ladder stretches now:
from sun to flower and now towards the quicksilver that shatters. Now
even faster the heart feels ice-cold like the moon in a bow string
and that unbreakable spoon with its thousands of faces alike.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem