A poem is a literary ax
which cleaves the streams of consciousness that freeze
when we turn to sincerity our backs,
not going down to it on bended knees
to plead that we not be condemned for guilt
incurred in gardens where our bona fide
intentions were diverted, left to wilt,
by insincere emotions drained and dried.
The streams of consciousness that ought to flow
through gardens fail, when they’re by ice obstructed,
to irrigate the minds that thus forgo
the electricity that is conducted
only by these streams. The ax can split
the ice that clogs the streams with its huge blocks,
enabling once again unholy writ
to deliver literary shocks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem