Into the heroisms of
Bright tenements,
I find myself dying,
Scarred and
Effaced again,
While I see you in
The effigy of his
Mexican relationship, who from
Your tawny kiln
Has produced both
Of your children,
Who came out to suckle off
Your mud,
The way fireworks gurgle
In brown sin; until like mud pies
For baby dolls left out in
The sill to tempt
Mockingbirds,
You leave that continent and return
Quite faithfully with olive branches in
Your teeth
To show me which way to land.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem