There is a place
called carnival with seaweed
where the mermaids knit miracle wounds with their damaged hands
and sing quietly screaming for the moon
with grey voices of contempt
when its reddish wings are done
There is a place
called feast of the sun
there the refugees of the caves
hid their pain and their pride
and the tiny fragments of loss
that got stuck on the golden hair of the tortured sirens
Now they kill to touch the infinite
today their home is called a place’
somewhere in the sea, somewhere under the golden straws of the sun
that are vomited by the loss of the shipwrecked
and where a place could be called as infinite
Is replaced with the reckless sentiments of waste
that happiness might have left behind
if they ever got to define such a thing
Said the seaman as his laughing whiskers moved.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem