I will publish my art through the new diamonds
And then I will survive by holding on:
What candle that wept beneath the burning bush—
What silent lip set afire by gasoline while the
Airplanes are pushing out:
Oh, mute child in Colorado underneath the mountains;
Wait for the rainstorms to come—
For then we will all be mute, and the you can
Sell yourself to the lips of the rattlesnake without any
Grief.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem