Capistrano and its swallows held
no joy for me. That thaumaturgy was
as rotten as the Wormwood Tree
blooming in an acrobatic circus act.
Poetry as politics; who would have thought?
Contra mundum.
Let’s jeer it for the spin doctors, with their
film noir auguries: Bungling Cassandras,
spouting inanities, ex nihilo, ad nauseum.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem