Silently listening to rhythms sliding around imagination, looking for a perfect fit - one that sounds good and makes sense to a logical side of thinking.
Insisting on common ground, following avenues of circumstance around corners of my mind.
Sidestepping every day organization, preferring to have piles, stacks of papers, and books, just to have something to remember on cold, lonely days, keeping everything to myself.
Existing in an aura of artistic endeavors, placing colorful speech on notes of penance, where they will one day become historical etudes, or prosaic poetry, destined for books in famous libraries.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem