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