With his red prong
and giant legs taller
than hills
stood he
in the frosty waters
the Sub-Conscious He
the Man of the Sub-Conscious
strong and raw
the plastic arts he willed
in the image of himself
then said
'Lo! things are for
they are of me, as me.'
Laughed a small humble
hill.
He turned, found not.
And
then he laid him on
the shore
where snore after snore
frightened the face of
fauns satyrs and nymphs
that popped up stealthily
and as Dawn approached
went
away as stealthily
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem