In flight,
the figure loses
its form
The form loses
its shape
The shape loses
its substance
A blur of activity
a whirlwind
of sound
where screeching
halts are called
Time for reflection
in the murky
waters of
the mind
We reminisce
and call ourselves
blessed to have
come this far
without lifting a
finger or
really moving
forward
at all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem