I sit alone, praying for sickness
or some sledgehammer of validation
as I step out into the twilight heat
And let the bugs at me
So only to justify the itching
To my ever practical eyes.
Im asking you, my friend,
For a loathsome slab of stone
To beat my useless fists against
Now that I thirst for only saltwater
Having transfigured clear springs to murk
With my ever practical mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem