WHEN THE DEATH GET CORDED
Over the pyre in the marketplace are piling up dry branches Sylvia Plath
These dry branches shouldn’t been corded here Is high noon when all the crowd Is going to pass hereabouts Wood phantasm is going to horrify the sleepwalker With that medulla dried in the bones. He is going to conduct the sleepwalk into the crowd (As a current get transmitted by a conductor)
One can do the heap in the marketplace But not at all No way In broad daylight.
MY FRIEND CORAL
I have my awakening green in the last moment of acerbity and I smell the fragrance of green grass It is not found anywhere…..
What to tell you more, My friend coral Happens to be chewed even the azure, sometimes !
I’m sober always In the last minute when the butterfly around the bulb becomes cinder. | Its height now turned to ashes Is falling as dusty dew over my palm.
Then, I turn off the light Like lightening I inflame a match.
Were flying birds around the abandoned houses In the front yard the thorns reaching up the sky.
No wand could take water out from any stone Was told the rain was in its time.
You are a chip in my height.
A fire that draws near my limbs and worn out my knees.
I am a chip In your height
That’s way you’re going Askance the flame.
TRANSLATED BY LAURETA PETOSHATI