In the lacunary, where we settle,
She speaks from a position of authority
My second mother of complete-truths
Let her speak, when she says
People are optical illusions, with their
Short shadows and quick magic tricks:
People are optical illusions lacking prestige.
Let my mother whisper when she spirits
Men of the beds in which they slept so far
Dragging them out in the lacunary;
There she adds: love's an engine
Not a camera, however large the room.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem