This life has sunk
too low. You want to go in disguise
after the hawk disheveled.
Your memories will not
sleep. The child in you wakes up
at every bell. The weaver dozes off.
Shoreline is far off. Blood
tastes like water. Socrates wants to
pay the debt before he drinks hemlock.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem