Stands still
the mill.
It cannot grind
with the water
flowing slow or fast
that is past.
Yet tomorrow
old mills
destined to grind
and abrade.
Streamlined,
the future
often thrills.
And past mills,
unborn yet,
may rise
to pulverize
and grind
with future winds
blowing from
the mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
law of karma that grinds us!