The captain of the game of dredging up
castaway words,
having weathered all the sea-storms,
having awoken,
having trawled among the blocks of printing presses,
and hauled back,
having found the golden pulse
of sunken galleons,
having waved the peace-flag of poetry
is returning
to port.
The poet
who reaches where no sun can reach
laughs, the blighter,
and says the fun was worth it.
Stillwater, 1974.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem