Racking and taking thoughts in turn, flipping and
arranging each one in an accumulated order of
prosaic purposes.
Watching them reoccur in patterns and designs of
mind's intellect, correcting nothing, because
they're always just right, perfectly in synch with
what intellect suggests every time.
A beautiful medley of rhythmic harmony and prose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem