The felicity of my structures
Muse over the pristine
Hollows of your feet
That made impressions
On the white, phosphorescent sand.
The fastidious grips
On a clout hand,
A taut kiss on the ground,
And the clocks that
Hum the morbid impending doom -
I am undaunted
Nor shaken.
I am moored
To your stations,
Jaded in your chasms,
Perplexed in your conundrums
And besotted
In your sun-glazed ardor.
We will turn the morose
Into blithe,
The darkness
Into light
The sullied visions
Into a gleaming sight
And the rigid
Into lithe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem