Who cares?
On the roads of days-nights
scarlet are trees; all dressed
in the shawls, and scarves
their skirts fallen down
around feet, on the ground.
People too are in masks
and in robes, and cloaks.
March Andes in my mind
(Pissarro’s half-wild men in Lima)
And Kon that has had fight
(a long fight that has lost) .
King Kon is, no more king
has head down; on way out
is leaving and the foe
Pachacamack on her way
Has climbed the throne
(and frowns…)
Heat and cold of sky
made changes, fiestas
among them Halloween.
But who knows and who cares?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem