It is a dark river flowing to the sea
that becomes part of the history again:
The walls of the fortress
are without lookouts nor loyal soldiers.
We must collect all the carnations for the Kafka grave:
He attempt to explain half in jest
the squaring of horror that he predicted in vain.
The fruits of the Horn of Plenty are dead
One again the horizon is breaking
Inside the empire the hemlock bloomed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you very much for your comment Leah. I have read your poems about daily events and I think are very good. Best regards