Not only is the one sight seen
from any perspective or
in a dream or near sleep,
at start of day, or coffee-time
falling evening or fiery dusk, or
anytime a mind may be.
No fruit borne by an attempt
to convey all of the known
sights, sensations, sounds
and sentiments, not fit for purpose
a synthesis of many things
which can only cogently be sensed
in the moment.
Poets through the ages
on earth and everywhere
have left us the remnants of
the moment, a London
street in 1910, or a battle
scene imaged in 1510.
We live there then in them
to happily return again.
Good, if all poems are logged
by a mythical light-form scribe
in Jannah, or at their source
by a delicate -but fierce- angel
who was overlooked for the
mission at Sodom. Too occupied
by His true calling. Each firefly is
deftly captured.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem