The Moon Bear slips
into a nightmare
where they force
him to dance.
When he wakes
the barbed shunt
in his gall-bladder
bites and aches.
Under the cage
bile drips into
a tray, destined
for the phial.
Dancing would be
a kind of fate,
pit-fighting,
taking bait.
Here he drains, only,
wrestles his own pain.
His eyes close slowly.
No more trance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem