traveled to the place of mambas
and
euphorian chants....
there was wildwood
and
pudding,
made in a hasty pot with starch from the crops of darlings and effigies...
each weir captured another myth...tales told, forbidding and beseeching in one breath....
....rapture was a rarity,
hauled up with the last bucket of illuminated dust...feet were washed..prayers whispered....beds pummeled....eyes closed.....
night song began,
carried on the back of a slow wind tethered to all that ever was....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem