The world will never understand a poet,
It seems,
It seems...
The colors of the universe,
Bind my tongue,
And I cannot speak to you,
The lines I have written...
Lines like;
I had a dream that I was entangled; naked,
In the limbs of fruitless crooked trees,
And the moon was full,
As my heart gave birth to new fruit;
My subconscious virginal sacrifice,
To the starving hands of human ignorance...
For you see,
This is my temple and who will see,
And know, the colors of my unseen glass?
That I cannot see reflecting in your eyes...
Yes,
Yes...
I am a stained poet,
I am the unforseen shard,
I understand the beauty of your blood,
And the existence in non-existence...
Haunting, like one conforming into their own shadow,
In their own presence...
So when my waist becomes inanimate
In the hands of a man:
I will be gone,
Preaching to another loving convert,
Preaching,
Preaching...
On how the world will never understand a poet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem