Its time to go.
crossing the lane,
or compact oneself in fixed frame,
wheather it is surreal or vain,
Its time to play,
wheather art makes you,
articulate or wise,
holding the words like flower in bouquette,
or forest flowers blooming at their own,
creating a spell or ending a game.
knowing less or more
I found me surrounded with words unlimited,
dwelling in brain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem