the mind
is a pen that
stitches
the broken skin
of the
heart
the heart when healed
makes the mind
sleep
it sings like a
wind
that touches
the heights of
cliffs
the coldness of the
fog
that hangs upon
the trees
turns this place of misery
into
a temple of beauty
the mind wakes up
a stranger anew
to what it had been seeing
in the face
of that river without
banks
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem