far beneath the steeples of cobble stoned london,
he moves without the parting of a shadows grace.
from morning to morning he carries no longing.
under the heavy hymns of the luthern organs
he breaths amongst centuries of dead and
thoughtful saints
he can see thier forms in the darkened hour,
thier drawn out robes crested and wrinkled.
the emblems of holy words dust covered and faded.
now once again he must part the letters
in tombs of mortered regret.
ressurection of the coffin figure to wander and speak
to whom he may, walking through herb gardens.
carried by tombstone... gravestone october winds,
which blow hollowly causing his morbid child to flee,
all those memories of her.
now he must refrain from the glow of the brass
lanterns and pale jugulars his clavicle redemption.
as through the arterial streets of london the
bloodless form of his opaque continence
mourns and is drained of all mineral colums.
Hey nathan - the word 'Their' is not spelled thier. Speak to April. she'll show you how to use a dictionary and /or a spelling checker. She thinks you're super. By the way, this is a pretty darn good poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
April agrees-It's so different and beautiful images as in all your work 'in tombs of mortared regret' gorgeous! But it could reach to really brilliant if you will have them edited (HHMM_who could do that?) When you suddenly come across a 'to' when it's obvious you meant 'too' it breaks the flow and drastically changes the direction, meaning and atmosphere for a while. It's like like listening to music and there's suddenly this tuba that shouldn't be there.