It is the wintry rock
that warms the soul-skin so,
in sun-basin glow;
and the indisputable Architect
who builds with wild, emancipated bricks:
and releases the wind whispers
knowing
they will
return
like butterfly breath to nectar;
and sculpts chaste logic from words of unbridled chaos;
and sings war torrents into madrigals
like finger-tip touches that almost aren’t;
and finds the dragonfly hovering colours over the pond,
and uncovers sainthood on Death Row
and unearths foundations century-strong in bleak ruins.
(27 July 2006)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem