By Thomas Page
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.