the wind beat, s in to shape wilted flowers.
the roaring mind and its aching flesh, begines
to retreat.
the retreat becomes a ritual, and a appetite
for love.
this hungry ego becomes what it was, nothing
more then a shadow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ego is the shadow of mind/ A good poem! ! ! excellent write! ! !