Translation Problem Week Four

This is the transliteration for Sydney's, Anastasia's, and my poem.

Death of the Wild Boar

Age the wild boar, the spot black on the stones,
swarming, wild boar
first to arrive here, path of rock
and chestnut, maybe note attracted
to the sweet chestnut, to the sun
that filters and bursts in flames, and pierced
by the sun, by time, and much more: difficult
to say if it was bullet, better the plague
porcine, or one secret gash, sly
that works under the flow and grunt, under the anxiety
of the flow and grunt, the hunger
and the pleasure that he pushes the night toward forests
and crags, and meanwhile a dull
betrayal grows slowly,
in silence, in the rustling
of brambles and bushes uprooted,
of moss upset
like a mudslide
or life that breaks apart, thin forest
lost and now exhausted, the point extreme
where a nerve shoots up, a muscle
arrests and rises up, and also the blood freezes: here, then
the end, the dear deponent verb
of the wasp and autumnal chestnuts, little mushrooms and streams
what scarcely over they rumble, blackbird and bluejay.
Either carrion, or almost, but a little theatre of skin
eats away what encrusts in the loam, a military train
alive of white maggots and of ants,
a banquet conclusive. The skin,
the bristles dark, the tusks, and then nothing.