Thick
was the mist
you could use the knife
to juggle and to
carve ways
out of it:
there is a Nile of red
red blood
on saffron wedges
and on cliff hanging ledges
tall
grey
giant shadows pass
sliding at times
from rock to rock
then
sudden
disappearing
in the caves by the clouds
hiding.
fire! fires!
I saw three shrouds
whose scarce clothes
and shabby
were on fire.
Those three shrouds
were running into fire
as rapid as the fires
blared.
No, not even in the
dawn
nor after.
fire! fires!
I saw three shrouds
whose scarce clothes
and shabby
were on fire.
Those three shrouds
were running into fire
as rapid as the fires
blared.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very beautiful, running in to fire, I like it.