This clod of earth that I call mine
is only dust and dirt,
Until your overflowing water
spills the green upon the brown.
Your whirls and eddies soak the ground
of this awaiting garden.
My breath dries to crackles and sparks
the air inside my jar.
Your mist and clouds discharge my fret
with gentle laughing rain.
Your waters dance and splash abandon
over all my hard-baked cares.
Ego-fire drives to level
all I really love.
Its flaming mouth would eat the world
and stand alone apart;
But that monster cannot pass
the river of your heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really enjoyed this; somehow the colorful words balanced the ideas images and to my eyes it is a work of art none less, though it be crafted of words.