Instead of pain sublime in body of death
and bracing a hailstorm of bullets
you embrace a white phosphorus
to burn for whole life, as a reminder of
collective suicide. Like my lost children
I am collecting the words to weave a phrase
against the destiny for capturing this moment.
The vast crowd will decide the fate of frigid winter –
to upstage the sun. Barren trees overhear
the wailing winds. Lake of death will outlast
the mirage of inward suffering. Chariot of
Apollo vaults to inconceivable height.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem