the trembling of my hand
fate's string dangles
twisting my vision to one
that cannot be
the dust settles callously
over the meandering stream of thought
throughout the forest of my pain
I cannot guess the times
that fortune has passed me by
in favor of the senseless drudging
of the moon's cool heat
upon a summer's first snowfall
I feel like the imagery here is jumping out and grabbing me by the tips of my hair and yanking me into your poem.
There is such a mixture of images here that no clear picture emerges from the myriad of word usages. The reader is left in the dark. GW62
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your skill in maneuvering the labyrinth of the English language really is quite skillful. Well done, oh traveled one.