Thickening, quickening
tastes kinda sour
Tinkering thinking
no source of this power
Drink, Sink to the brink
minute turns into hour
Clear blue not a cloud
but still there's a shower
All that will be
is right here in this powder
The wanderer hears
the soft words of the shouter
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem