Mires And Births
And,time has it's own orbit,
and life, its own stations,
The flowers and the fields,
and the fueling days,
destructive ways of departures,
Rings and the domes,
cathedrals and the castles,
the wise and the old,
the broken and the new furnitures,
the ways of the world and men,
brandished brawn and the slow memories,
never the same but consoling,
from particles to the atoms,
fleshes to trees, trees to dirt,
years to year's occuppance,
years played with my eyes,
and nights to my day's highlighings,
Everything's a welded decisions,
The choices and the means,
my life, an axis, each life a wheel and axels.
everything's a wheels to delirium,
And loud words or a stutter,
however rich, small but equals
every propellers plunges,
back to earth and disentigrates,
And every words, arts doesn't matters,
the wounds, the births, the disappearance,
this precious earth baffled me,
with morbid fascinations,
of the wheels and days,
recycled clays and the souls,
Recycled earth, and parallel universe,
to confuse me more.
to embattled me more as a combutants,
casualties and fallen structures,
hopes and hopes, infinite reaches,
mires and birth's emptiness,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem