I am more interested in the art than the life
And I cannot imagine how this must
Be demeaning for you,
While the pitch-perfect echoes are swollen
And then are left unattended to be believed in by
All of the people who are left outside
Of their graveyards—
Spinning in the echoes of their Christmases—
Tending to become the less brighter amusements
That have to read the unenlightened papers
While the rest of us head inside for breakfast—
Until the day of the manifest comes
And there are two of each animal—
And the angels play hooky—and the world swells
Form the whore's tits—swells and swells
And becomes manifold—because that just a world
That keeps to the tracks of its unambitious joy,
While you have your mother waiting at home
For you far across the world—
As your brother is playing a game I cannot spell
And falling in love with another woman from
The north country—
There it seems to be her joy spread like jam across
Country—
While the peasants go unlistening to the knights who
Are errands anyways—and
I sometimes wonder who you cannot love,
While I try to figure out who was my first love,
Anyways.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This was absolutely beautiful. I was crying by the end. You have amazing talent..