quarta-feira, 28 de agosto de 2013

Imperfect Sonnet to the Wharf Poet (translated)

Clocks with no hands and torn
newspaper sections
print mental images:
masked and insecure.

Tish, the hermit that manages my learning
shares his old soul with my fetus-body…
and all I absorb is what I let
being absorbed – unconsciously

From the grizzled beard to the no-prudence-poems,
the wharf old man, stranger emigrant,
the wise-words-man, Buddhist by blood

Only divagates , as I, searching
For something in common with the poetic livers:
hands, glue… and internal security.

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