O Lord, you are the tailor of my shade.
Sew it as solid one, not beetled over…
I dream to have your hands to aid,
Your love that is invisible and hovered.

Don’t segregate myself on these and those
For these and those are netted threads, self-crimpers.
With wobbly knees to strive to you and glow,
In prayers stop my helplessness to whimper.

My blindness is declined as well as pain.
I see now voices as I used to hear them.
What’s ever numb shall splatter once again,
Unspoken furtively might lynch with reason.

While counting martyrs, following a clef
O Mighty, please, perceive what was so instant.
Your heaven’s angles are acute and deaf,
the bullet jammed, a temple fills no distance.

A candle drinks my thoughts as time sifts sand.
The slayer’s stone gives wings for painless edges.
I lead the shade, and curves made by my hand
Still follow skyline-seams, beyond imagined.

The chills are stowed and dimness greatly heaves
to feed with echoes cries and weaken traces.
I’ll leave to dry what’s left to drink or grieve.
Suntraps are breathing hard in shady spaces.

June 8, 2010

Дещо "люзний" переклад ось цього вірша:
http://maysterni.com/publication.php?id=48731