The theatre spent a good deal of time wrapped in a dream
before deciding to unfurl early and move like a clear, freshwater stream.
The thespian used effectively, their body in that space,
before a critical flop at the theatre sent them to tumbling disgrace.
A part of me in the audience and a part of me on stage;
a self ventilating ventriliquest is discernable no matter their age.
Shes moving on but she's everywhere at the same time,
a little bit lemon and a little bit lime.
The dream beckoned a theatre, no specific time, no specific space,
The drama beckoned a stream; of enraptured space time politics written all over her face.
The thespian collaborated constructively on movements in a story
before a creak in the ceiling, conduced a dropp of water from the ventriliquest's ventilation
system located above the thespian's dream in the theatre, another space time political incantation
had unfolded, seemingly unattributable to a specific space, time or place.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem