She or He builds castles of poems.
In the land of Alphabets.
Separated only by the Moat,
Which is the tongue of the poet's soul.
The letters slip in ever so silent,
Mature in the oaks which made a generation of folks.
The dance, they jive, they fight and fight,
Till they find a rhythm which pleases their own mind.
Thus timeless and yet matured in age,
A poem leaps out from the oaks and adorns the castle of grace.
Every single brick, is unique and true, ties down unmistakably to the poets juice,
Because the oaks were tempered in the fire of youth,
And the poet's ink comes from the marrow of his or her truth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem