Tripletting from our own heads
we brought them forth as gods;
wiseheaded, river-berating, caressmiling-
universes in a three-palm.
mantranting priests, born-grown-died
and vapourised again,
recognised the cyclic vision of being and nonbeing-
contemprying sages, all of us.
filling empty pages,
shivering with the icicles of birth that will,
in the end, puncture life away,
in the aggloomeration of joyous dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
icicles of birth... nice