Scattered around are pieces of modern art, some stretching
in bodies of sculptures, dancing in time without moving an
inch.
Other decorations mounted on walls, portraying their shiny
countenances through dull colors and reflections of light,
hitting them in depths of interior serenity.
Bamboo partitions and vases of dried-out looking, tall weeds,
just sifting and standing in corners of the waiting room here
at the pain center.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem