Shall my words
stretched thin across the page
ever shimmer
with living opalescence
like the luster of light
upon the Roman vase
in the vestibule of my mind?
Glass
that has seen
twenty centuries pass
beneath the gray-green sea,
as the microns of patina
quietly spread
transmuting the surface
of the simple silica
to something wondrous
glowing with inner flame
vibrant from the depths
Does the gloss
of all my words
form such a palimpsest
to be uncovered
and endowed
with meaning
or is it merely
a surface sheen
of verbiage
scattering sense
in all directions?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem