life is at times bleak the black that covers
us to a beyond dreams.
at times we seek and gain the black wool
of the sheep as the light of today looms far
from our minds so we sucome to our own
illusions like the quick flick of a mirror and we
look down upon the reflection of an equilibrium.
A state that we become calculating the slow
drops of the hour glass falling to the pits.
As dark looms over the shadow that cuts
with doubt to look upon the sky and sees
that the ray of light is here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Is it an e. e. cummings style?