THE WORM
a poemby AZsacra ZARATHUSTRA
English translation by AIDar ISMAGILOV
now –
only rats
await the Coming of
Their Own
Heart
shoots of the grass
bring us the Great
Defeat
not to
the ant-hill –
but to the Sun swerve
the ants
the trees are
called upon for battle by
the rain
the worm of
black
wisdom of the Soil
flies into
the Sky
as the Divine
Butterfly
and doesn't taste
the dead
flesh
Poetry by AZsacra ZARATHUSTRA
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Written on 2007-06-18 at 10:24
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