If I come out of the darkness of history
and have no epistilogy considering light
where am I in travel considering?
I open my palms in a world pregnant with
self and come up empty in a desert of humanity's
disconcern wandering.
I am the thousands.
I am the millions.
I am silent only due to despotism.
The world will not be as it should until
the thousands, the millions, even the one
walk as they walk and go where they should
go unhampered, without gathering of derision,
but bundles of compassion.
Then, the sands of evil will shift, and heavy clay of
death mound to itself and the city of justice will evolve
beyond all imperpituity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
pregnant with self, I like it, thanks.