no one ever taught me to stop
it was always about the movement
and the guilt encased
in remaining stationary
always the next ''doing''
I spindled and wound
my way through life
fearing the very hand
of God punishing
me for not
''doing what I
came here to do! ''
Where are the still ones?
the ones that learned
to hold time lightly
those who can sit
as mountains
or move as slow as
stars - the Great
slow turning
of night sky
those who became
like the tip
of a needle
able to penetrate,
then weave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem