Straightening lines of interior rhythms, hanging them
on lines of imagination, finding the tantamount chances
in life that challenge death on it's own doorstep.
Leaving it wondering whatever happened to the timid and
shy little poet, not really knowing how rebellious and
stubborn this mere poet has always been.
Never silent, passively loud and boisterous, touching
edges of danger with an alarming rate, suggestions never
being taken, just stepping into lines of imagination with
eyes wide open.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem