If poems are the truth we are the truth,
For poetry is a stag and I am a pony.
My march is rapid and frivolous and pony-like,
But the dispersal of poetry is captured.
My camera is of delight as I wage my war on
The regarded men, the still landscape of war.
The scene is of a poet's dream and war, dream
And draw, a song sung with alarm, as the pony.
My peace is of the paper, of the march of time,
As secrets disperse and aspirate, munching the
Worms of my delight; like innocence of daisies,
And ponies, and delightful little mammals.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem