By Thomas Page

The Untranslatable

This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.

In the pit of the stomachs mixing acids like cocktails

In some melancholic bar sitting across a snowy window

There is a row of patrons each glazed—

Broken pottery in the ditch—

Hoping to baptize themselves in some liquid idol

That will renew their fire that should have burned for days

Like the bonfires of the youth

Burning the cheeks and hands searching for it—

The illustrious it that is always out of reach

The it that is the missing piece

Fracturing the face enshrined in glass

Sitting in some dimly light hallway

Dusted by the years in the blue-black shade

That closes the eyes in the same hue

Chanting like the anchors with their psalters

Kingdomcome, kingdomdone, kingdomgone, kingdomwon

The cycles of life spiraling down to it

Out of reach of the dying fingers with yellowed nails

Beckoning to repeat it all again

Wailing to the stars not knowing that their guiding light died long ago–

Its shine its wake

Language: Czech

One thought on “The Untranslatable: Litost

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