The imperfect absence of perfection
brought an infinite spectrum to possibility.
What it meant to exist in this early rising
don of mantras, it felt imperative to shed
its skin.
Or for me, to exit stage right and express what
I had left behind. Beautiful for the sake
of staging was a rasa resigning.
All that I am.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem