The figure that ploughs this field
calls himself a man.
Of wit, of pen
the sod turns, to rise
falls on the whiplash of thought.
Vision of innocent, call to god
as the furrow turns home.
The sprit darts free.
Sweat, with earth, the seed grows
to illusions of grandeur
is this the poet.
(3/8/1987)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
...'falls on the whiplash of thought'... I like that. t x