To the Apollo Archetype, a colorful remark
was never half bad.
He had managed to skip a beat.
Hovered over the shortest of straws
where the rest had found relation;
where together they would impel
themselves like spit balls toward the heavens
in search of cohesion,
he would instead gather them like
rain puddles. A motif of short successions,
till he had enough to form a sea.
And when he drowned there, in those waters,
swallowed whole by a feeling, it was
none other than distant.
He had only felt complete.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem