Behind the rusted chain linked fence
guarding the treasures of the town yard,
pre-cast concrete pipe and tubing
waiting to be buried beneath our feet,
a sad but vibrant creek runs there still
Broken sidewalks shore the banks,
torn up from where they were laid and
piled against the defiant flow for fear
it might - with winters urging - burst
its ugly confines, lift its shameful yoke
and run ruin through the houses here
that have turned their backs on beauty
past, and laid up fencing, over which
old tires, bicycles and bones are tossed
The water licks away invisible footsteps
of this sorry-assed, self important town
gnaws at the vulgar writings of boys
who secretly scratched at immortality
in the once wet concrete pathways,
shiny black beetles caught in a glass jar
scratching with purpose but to no end
Their names and words have fallen here
as meaningless as the prints of wayward dogs
forgotten like the running water's true name
known now only to the children of the trout
who remember its clear, cold beginnings
in watery whispers they share with none
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem