Fire in the eyes.
A mind adsorbed in things, that are lost to space and time.
A day dream that isn't really a dream at all.
Absent of both fear or joy.
No, no wryly slight grin with a glint of foreboding emotion.
But this dull sensation of looking forward past the light and darkness.
Almost unhuman, unnatural is this feeling.
Yet the draw is something hard to put out of ones mind.
But it can be blocked with walls of iron and stone.
A gate of control, as if it is the raising and lowering of a very short draw bridge.
Enter only you are not absent in heart, mind, and soul.
For the material existence of things has very little importance here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem