Troubled poets are searching for sacred sainthood.
They long for vital forces to flow through their blood.
Like mantras, they keep repeating their hackneyed rhymes.
They always fumble over half remembered lines.
They were once confronted like Christ by demons in
The wilderness. Like Him they were tempted to sin.
When Lucifer urged them to turn stones into bread,
They turned them into exotic flowers instead!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem