Insideous pockets of depleted air
Scattered throughout shifting soil
Noting a brim of mental reflection
I no longer wish to toil
With extreme provided wisdom
I play a brand new game
Spitefully, I bide my time
In effort somewhat lame
Eventually, I win no war
With slow deliberate pace
No task left of unfelt indecision
I leave without a trace
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great poem, love the last stanza, good rythmn to it. HG: -) xx