Realms of inspiration crowd into my mind, relating
stories of yesterday's fame.
Turning around, stepping in time with many memories
of intelligent reminiscent thought.
Creaking down stairways, attempting not to be
stranded in mires of turbulent revolution as piqued
touches of sense develop on their own.
Needing no prodding, flowing into rhymes of lines,
tantalizing poetry into the existence of a polka.
Strutting life's measures of happiness and memorial
unions of familial ties into darkened evenings on
another horizon of life's beatitudes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem