The creases in his palms
Chug and click with brown blood,
Under floorboards, in walls
And our fantasies flood
The brain pruned beyond faith;
A halo whispers shrouds,
Crows coil to the huge wraith
Buzzing softly in crowds;
Do all systems lead to
Chronos? This maroon course
Sticking like rust all through
And forming life, the source
Of Creativity?
The Fool's Eternity?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem