I am not
the man you know;
an inner me
hides far below.
The soul
is not a bat;
it's a mole
burrowing below.
What one sees
only rarely
is the slice of dirt
where it goes.
Eyeless,
it burrows
under the surface,
(the conscious,
subconscious,
unconscious)
slipping sleek
faster, deeper,
silently,
lower, lower
and propagates
its kind.
Ugliness,
innocence,
willful
and blind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem