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.

Upon the dusking sun with the twilighting moon neither at its zenith,

Sit the parded-faces with the furor of the countless stars in their eyes

With the hopes of sevenfold generations that their dreams will align like the warrior’s belt

In a perfect scope through the stargazer

That like the Romuluses and the Remuses perched on the walls of the city

That can see their futures from their speculations—

The moistened tea leaves from the stained china cups

To know the Latin dagger in the peace-clothes.

But, like the July-stars, life will present its daggers

Unless you have the connection to the gods

To guide the wheel upon the fortunate dice

To mark your fields to rain, no flood

To harvest, no famine.

Those with gods-blood will claim that life will bless its adherents

With the bucolic fields of lofty poets

Full of the mewling and barren of the grueling

For those who yearn honestly

Without knowing the country roads are paved in father’s gold

The museums are gilded mirrors

And the cities are the banks of the goldrushes.

Don’t let the snakeoilers on stage sell you on their congenital dreams

With the promise of elbowgrease and grit

To remove all of the stains of being

While supplies last.

Language: Polish

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