Shattered glass,
intact on a picture frame,
still hangs on the wall
a picture of and
nothing has changed,
every piece
in its place
individually,
hold a purpose,
the many parts
to a whole,
I am in the opus
holding shattered reflections,
gauze and dripping lineage,
forward among the tripping
mirrors of enlightenment
standing by the window
looking outside of myself
hear I touch the hand
of divinity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem