Birds circle
round a corpse
no one knows
how to honor.
Wings wide,
they make
one-hop landings,
greedily eyeing
what was once
a feast.
Hyenas crack bones.
Beaks peck
empty sockets.
Poetry’s skull
robbed of its ears
grins bleakly
in the sun,
trailed
by the snake
of its spine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem