The wind or consciousness intones:
“Better never to have been born.”
You watch along the creek bank stones.
A Norway rat filled up with corn
squeals as a mink drags it away,
the blood left on the loam: a trail,
a trail to heaven, blue today,
but winding first through earth and hell.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
With the blood left on the loam. Nice work.