Dark walks on long bridges
can shake oceans and make digits
of lines of gray, and always black,
and yet the walk is about not looking back.
Because that bridge becomes a desert,
as hot and cold as anyone being can see.
as meek a person crosses bridges meekly
in search of the end, hoping while praying.
Sometimes I stop and cry,
you can never reassurance me of why
a walk must be taken
as my body is aching.
Yet, I begin to walk through,
and as such remind myself that I too
can cross any dark bridge,
and cross any excruciating desert,
with my head above the water
while the sun becomes much hotter,
I will reach the end...
and finally, oh God, finally begin.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem