The sun pours through every leaf
Playing shadows on the white wall
As red-and-white temples ring bells
The banyan rises from colored plastics
In warm yellow light and water shades.
Yesterday's eye-red was but a phase
Having lost the moonlight all the way
Behind large doors and khaki authority
(When we pray in marble mosques
We tend to get killed on Fridays
Because beauty does not really matter
But only the blood-red duty-call)
In the end we see where the king went
In the cold cellar, past earthly beauty
The priest's God-call pierced the vault
As beauty is not truth, only coldness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Images cloud the illusions of truths