Transelating "The Waste Land"
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Sandra Khalifa
April is the foolish moth, weeding.
Lies make doubts from a bed pan, fixing
Men or wands of fire, luring
Vandal boots, whispering grain.
Win to keep the swarm, hovering
a brittle knife with allure.
Her prized summer, winning over the lake,
With a flower of raisins; we hopped in the lemonade
And drank coughs, and walked until sour.
Binges are kind Russians, stamina and Lithuanians, fetching Dutch.
And fend for children, swaying like the arch-duke,
Sly cousins, the book bent on a hedge,
It was heightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, fold your tights. On hounds we went.
In the fountain, where you feel bees.
One seed, much light, and gold splinters.
Soaring, swish, floating in potions, writhing fights divide the white moon's fright.
The sun of man as an overtone faint and, burned in fate.
Who helps the fool - the nerve; he dines by blue paint, or green in the red light.
Whose nose gapes, revolves two ways, in the deep end of the winter,
The worst time for biding, while the shallow bed rocks.
Edge of the gate, by wires and feet, in black and white, the remnants of the future are in knots -
noble blood, diamonds, friars, war-defying black cities, fighting precision,
stuttering slings, wistful mansions,
wings soggy like wine from rust.
Bloody but sane is my tea for
two in
Boys in orange fuddling to state a structured vision.
Ever do I beckon to hopes of the sea and fishes with wider minds,
Jutting steep spires,
a dissident pope,
a fortunate white mare,
a swarming of vaccines against vacations,
lush thoughts and memoirs of our travels, dragons in pain missing half a tail.
I'm wrought with a fear of clouds, water, long stares, distant money.
Matched to other's wishes, I sang in silence,
not knowing real icing, real things, sappy facts.
Wreck everything you know to be eternal.
Alone, frigid below winter rains,
cold snow; bees move and hover over flames like you over my skin and leave,
daunting men give warning shakes, daunting tales burn in their hell;
cold snow, outings in gardens, over tombstones, hovering soldiers
win these hovering wars with fool's wealth, with your mental kicking;
Fill up desolate pubs so now, well so now, well like Romans, they turn to love;
like crass crowing on softer fields where children learn propositions and games.
We'll tomorrow be in seminaries, deranged states faking death and rebirth.
Don't spit on peaceful snow, get off your bouncing beds, your flying horse,
wear these screams well.
She spat wells perfected,
her lazy falling hair,
the riddle girl apprehending; she was Cleopatra.
She fought nobody but herself,
even Anthony, being so stout,
bid her good day.
He was a pearl
from mother nature;
her life lurched, chased by sacred events.
The media for sure puts scores and scores on the market.
She hid, fought sleep,
she rose to be haunted,
upset, endured the bleak attacks of fright,
her glare still in the past, she a stone melts perfected.
The twitter and the sigh,
wasted fright in a room.
Even as God flowers in a wisteria vine,
He fills her with unfair love,
utter spite bent the root of dull gray mourning,
absurd words, turning these hums to wood; we bleed blue.
The soul ate sounds from the attic;
mother probably laments the heart and soul
lost in sounds;
a million different woes shielded that punch.
Scum from rats we soar above the hill,
we wore lightning on our gowns,
we made sounds we meant.
It is scary to fear any number of messy choices,
Hide behind shutters which wall our feelings.
Freckles on reserve, elation fusing in the air,
gathering their bones, crescents and modern elevations,
the stairs began to toll moans,
a holy face to express homely soul.
We count, each of us wheeling the slang which
rounds bends, shadows enter our minds
but they bounce back,
millions of tan gents flouncing, weaving,
fending off one another,
one million, four-hundred fifty-nine thousand, seven hundred forty-five tan gents calm and reeling.
A crash registers in the caverns,
bee wings are collected in red boxes,
so blamed for the stealing process.
Wizards are their protectors,
ancient subservient mothers serving humans again,
wrathful as ever,
repentance muddying the frantic satchel with muddy undertones,
they would sell you restlessness as a purse.
Thriving excites men – the disease – the attic's friction,
with personages each glowing, ever seeking a warning,
So flat no matter how blue or brown.
It's bee homes mounted effortlessly in that ignorant cloud,
setting into trembles and leaving a false precipice,
staggering fake feet in the distance,
pulling the husband and spouse, winking at the sun.
One dies for men that are lax, ability to impress, but christening nonetheless.
Watching shows - the exacting use of lifelessness. Seaweed wrappings.
Scene so sparkling for a cent – we then woke and shyly built a marsh.
Angles keep heaving with sides that are physical. Deep-hearted.
Solomon, wore herds' wool of inner glee and emotion; attitude bends the lies to more thinking.
Freed mom is full of birds and country verses, oh won't you watch your television?
Until gentle women take over the world. Fine alley, wings that they could see.
Veins beating in the distance, silently, while rust is appearing. They forget sound.
Deep hole, sputtering of the trains, weighing board games, life sticking in the rock.
Waving a sad pay, what a muse. God is saying to you – you're at best a little coy.
There there, my neighbors, wooing long days. Lots of hurting woes. They sew it together.
If you're young and hung dry, it’s worthy by cause of pressure, sediment.
There they are, splitting something, wooing some tiny wealth.
Her: “Who saved up?”
Him: “Drop, could it drown”
Her: “I would move it. You’ve willed deeds. You’ve willed fuss.”
Him: “The hog buys the truth.”
Rich ward should sell the mud a while a day. He faked eleven stars – they read no such thing.
She bought brown swishes in the sink every bad day hearts soaking. The lever drank.
She spelt under traction in her fading fruit stalking a day from the cons of minion.
He wallowed, her pout withheld bands woven. She shook down a stain. It’s all heart of the masses, they threw.
Latching brings crickets as they bit leeches over black sands embossed.
White bell and the wars stood out, will them good.
She sold him silver levers fainting to weave this vision. That they should weigh to get her for better if they ever sifted the parts.
Deep mind stirs of last problems, they cinched, rooting far, she died – he factually wheezed and kissed it.
She basked in her head seeing the shooting afar. He bought sheilds of plastic. He booked his bed.
Her quest runs
Nature's alley, he weeded from
weeds, he flaunted
He took her off and stalked on the widening floor, the book sticked as he gut it. He gut it justice sits too far.
She vied not to wink aloud this evening. She hollowed and set a mocked bore.
She was dressed with whims since seven dreams,
She forever seemed laid far from start, she gleamed on the brass lining. He sat in the head.
He dripped down the moat and learned the telling vision on.
Her: “But it frowned down on top this ring vet means!”
Him: “how strong you rowing to bait before you sum in fear?”
Her: “Sell me high, you talked Theodore”
There stung. She rots flat inside as mourning over books of wars.
Pains wail from the high sudden sea,
Rooting thorough mounds sitting buildings deep caves reeds with energy ex-notions.
Their stacked dings, their false fried intersections, God ran your essay,
If we were blowing too rash, we would have met on rhyme!
As the stain sells where was no screening, just leper nation ducking a way peeping holes.
Strike trebles they melt into the bee.
All warts of huffs in the pie with the stairs, that lure affair – that wee hall!
Noises and my sheen erupts shins, wreaking to us sound and fear.
All sorts of wings stalling win to my joust like chalk, oh state.
All rose people, me worries, wood lines, all for rotten for each trinity.
But mill young off-styles a way too rips beat, duty falls over a gain.
Image of nations sun in the wild, whipping faked wall whose memories cost are begotten.
The soon betting cow, wisely, covers the hotter withheld veins, and to the winning throw.
But graces, fall-bends step a rated form of wings – him and potions in the dark mess.
Repertoire and free found sub-limes, duty warms so wisely all cover again.
Bears and walruses mope all confined in a muck of thick to medium goop. Sigh bearing the tigers, one horn, cent wars, ball ex-tint the fright is won lenient stack mark dot. And but i didn't want the grapple fee rover the motion.
Fellow the doll fans out to
see, bay usually grows the day
and bikes to fret yet. They are wired and stick up weighing the game
same
everyday, not under bus – where feeling right amuck, bows
I’ve forever set as
golfing hooted not like fees. Did you see the sailor bet on this
mourning?
Passion innate in trees. Glorious homes and sparks? The
The sun hits like a stacked crack – possibility does not pass for better. Just mask the four boughten guard dens, the seeds moan to mild shire, hiss fully a glare of dumb things hater but unstable to a chief any brings unto you!
Belong with Havasu out ride the vice stops. I thaw a packed fan staying with who,
his mental fax of stone whipping up a storm gloats, fails, harm bionic and wit, deal flicks of wire summing bout of flat sings,
people stopped, locked more to more, last the food, hall of stem reeling sooner,
it’s feist month on fifth, threes, thistle though, mosses fall about, a root I pull the way,
the blow welts, the knaves dress a gain sits farther than any hopper's soot would, the cakes a precious hate the woosh, in fluent tongue,
the breath hums tucan bends, won four decks in is rot posse bulls, the musing pops, the boars froze, everything seethes.
One more guess, The farms behoove, with diction worse than flow snails like boats sipping through sounds wearing familiar aprons the tough bounds of trite ends and wine or sick ones fixed, Brown the wheat bedrock, free, stop fees, stop Bourdeaux STOP!
A maze inkling sum one else weighs sax that’s stout on the fleet, he masticates what the spies saying, he baffles miles, and splotches hymns for a wit. The boats wet header, the food bee combs happen, art a piece elated, though less ends, mops free oh then.
A dove the watch blots of a part mint: the witch is and boasts harrowing bindings of the witty stall in some building – all in one door, of one feat, above stops spelling that game i deem. Some won hardened a lyre. After he shook the eleven gators brown from the party meant he bought out of the welding. He had a thorough span. He didn’t stare at haphazard ends to beverage shelves. But he longed to wear the sacks of phones, instead of failing a lab.
Bellow, worthy, thatched, gender-offender dab hating for Jim. He whistled to that pact as the poor lease drove up. As he rot bald a day. Be bought! We bought!
Withheld in the rack of history note
heathens four teens deal dishes
via Hezbollah weary.
Vile he talks along dusty feats
with red stones backing stout scissors, while calf weans
pulse gaping to fizz sin, he doesn't note ice so vain,
Twin tea two store ease fall, hauling a bone of lead.
No matter,
exempt of plums her, law yours for account ants,
she talked beast filthy one a mill of rhymes,
the heel churned, the bend knew,
it should have seen you.
Laughter the porch lights bled on petty races
Laughter the frost beats sighs hence inner hardens
Laughter the age only in stone and faces
The pouting and the lying
Price on and pallets and free verbs elation
Of wonder of wings of verdant fountains
He who was giving is found red
We who were giving are now dead
With a whittle pat sense
Fear is on what urn but lonely stock
Stock and no one to band the sand and toad
The goad binding a dove amidst the mounting pains
Witch our mounting of lock with outward
If there were what yearns we would pop and sink
A monster opts one can, not sop or sink
Sweet is sigh and feats war in the banned
If their war only watered amongst the lock
Dead maintain houses of various wreaths that cannot sit
Fear one wan heathen stagnant wry or fit
There is hot even slices in the fountains
But wry stares while wonder with outpourings
There I snot even souls to do in the mounting plains
But wed sullen cases peers and parlors
Prom roars of mudcracked faces
If there were what yearns
And Nora
If where we rest clocks
And all so wanders
And wanders
A spry ring
A fool among the flock
And where were the hounds of wet urns lonely
Not the sick ought to
Bland guy crass wringing
But mounds of hot earth cover a rock
Bear that her might thrusts wings in the pine trees
Flip flop flip flop flop flop flop
But where is Nora.
Fear sirens screaming fortunes,
white light blinds focus, weaves black.
Sinful saints hiding in forts,
with ropes tied twice over, we wash away.
Suddenly I feel your truth coming to say,
bow to something, anything.
He finally waits, his red mist flees thundering at my echo,
blow the mad patron past waters and rhythmic bleeding.
All days remember, he's waiting.
Wryly with crooked motives,
driving to thin unborn pains,
realizing the blind find ways.
Cower under quiet debuts, you will solve your cons with cheats.
On towards misery? How do you align four games?
Law surpassing rot for better. One day you will swoon to this late day. Mope for a war never to fall and face us,
motion saves all grand cycles, toting this un-fruitful stop.
My woes may buy many rotten sweet mints.
The coy voices of wind hear calm spurts.
Patients at a loss stir to
hidden bees vying for wives and holed-up spaces,
lonely, that wood seems boring now.
She’s dead, gone, the rhyme disembodies distraught wit.
Be wrong, especially you, seeking death,
from the bliss of frayed sums draw ones.
We can only wake up weeping so many times,
find routes, the gleaming haze,
lingering deep hymns, closing in.
I went into mourning as a free spirit in true grounds.
My fear of failing goes.
Apples very ripe for beating
and squashing away the waste of misery with bleak truce.
Pop the brute for a pro gent.
Sin seers men, feeds what they say
with men, conniving, by lies.
Stop this morning
and reap in years.
Catch up waste-like goddess,
skip stones on seas to spinning gone halos.
Let's remark on the beginning, so technical these once-played
wrongs for remaining sneezes.
Suffer worries to be clover,
to seize horses that nay so to wed fleas.
Catch up.
When Heaven falls, or Satan pokes, a stout tool dries everything-
know that one will fear a whistle to catch up. Stay bent on your volition,
We sit, four cursed upon a boat,
We wax for good's sake,
Wont stares bat me like fat rust spraying thanks and fretting over it,
Knife touches; don’t keep winking about it,
You walk, like strut, think one foot, hefty flight.
Here, have to catch up,
look how you relapse.
You're leaven,
your sigh,
and you’re stopping, wrung cry, harassing doubt.
I’m so comfortable.
Let’s slip, wavering a round of eyes need to let up,
just blow every wing away.
Pass or catch up. I’m bleak and out again.
I loathed too the whirl because I loath to deter.
I was a witch, she would have shoved me.
She, sad, drastic perjury.
Nostalgic, rosary hung moreover,
Why glows the sun, past stronger than darkness,
Let’s row out and mend some crime together.
Why pay you for your shove,
Fake a number sweetly,
I reel, heightened.
Announce your lies and stop making new guns,
Your interesting band that shoves some fling to me,
it wakes me fleeing behind enemy lines.
Tongue-tied, nerve hits our chord, I stall you wittily,
I don’t know what you’re trying to slay.
Don’t see-saws suffice for me? Did once,
God as my witness,
The warm pages.
Wings on the hearst.