Black swans peddle in a lake of stars
To wake the foghorn dreamer.
He's smashing lightning rocks
And hard boiled poetry
For truth, or something near.
What can we do to help?
Perhaps listen to whistling ghosts
And drink parched messages
In a bottle, to discover
Reality is the perception of many
Strung through antiquity's mirror.
I cannot count the armed cicadas
Planting symphonies in the blue grass,
Nor can the world speed up existence
For health, or something dear.
But I do know the foghorn dreamer
Is writing God a prayer,
Simple as infinity times infinity
With humanity to spare.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem