With jewelry bent in their hands,
They gave us such a blessing, while the circuses
Cursed,
And the pilots cursed- I wonder where it
Was that they were going,
While the bobcats sat on the blue cliffs
Above where the Indians were yet mowing:
Their forgotten arrowheads in the indentations
OF their necks- the forlorn architectures
That crippled the first blue cavalries-
They set out justly suited to their pommels,
But the rains killed the joys in their
General directions:
It souped up the blue jays and gave trouble
To their complexions:
And now where they lay amidst the delaying
Pinions, scalped while out on holiday
Senseless- without direction-
And copper bugles pressed to the lips of
Too young and over eager skeletons.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem