Waking to reveries of silent nothingness, being stilled
with an interest of intense literature being invented
in a moment's notice.
Reverberating against untitled poems, being saturated
with talents of God.
Irately being interrupted, yet incorporating every
nudge of annoyance into another line or poem for reading
in the future.
(9: 45 p.m. - 12/12/08)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem