there is a ritual to serious
writing.
you close the door, then the windows,
you turn on the air-conditioner,
you switch on light, not that harsh,
like it dimmer, but not that blinding,
you do not actually think, you let your fingers
do the talking,
there is nothing in particular but the images
come and you want to capture it
with your eyes, but the dreamer wants everything
shut
mouth, ears, eyes, and a new world opens
you have never been there
everything is new....this awe and wonder,
you are not even a child, you do not know what you are
a spirit perhaps, remembering for once
an old time
and this is where everything begins
to be written.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem