Paper thin each lettered line.
Faces,
words that never go unheard of.
Yellow mound, of hollow blocks.
I am of things with eyes.
None ever hear,
Where you can't see.
Too touch a blind one.
That can't smell.
Where,
one may feel left out.
You rebuke me.
Jumbled letters.
Pen, red ink wells
near 'Cotton' gins
I, sleep by.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem