sing the words to your heart's rhythm,
feel the push and pull of the collective,
bright realities flowing through each vessel.
First as fire, hot and red;
Then as ice, blue and cold.
As emotions shift form tide to tide,
and sweep into a more comfortable position.
Let those chords and phrasings take shape,
and decide for themselves where to settle.
For a man is only as good as the rhythm
he lives his life by, and only as creative
as he is accepting of the life settled before him.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Two lines short of a sonnet but as exquisitely expressed as any formal one. I probably read it with a different meaning than what may have inspired your words, but what is common to all is the rhythm of the poem.