They come behind the scene
through convoluted images,
speaking truths in drones only.
Silent, they crawl snakewise
into realities of honey-coated
fantasies and doom-related
dreads and disasters.
Armed to the eyes,
visions fret in chatters of the
aged, nibbling at frozen flesh
of nasalized sequences.
Dreams run temperatures
when like snow-capped
peaks, transmontane fumes
rise beyond wailing degrees.
Aches round off discourses -
non compos mentis -
among celebrated whims of
a wild, wild night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem