It rests idly, half-twisted,
somewhat weird and contorted
behind a canvas.
Streaks of pink, screaming
another vision.
But goes deeper.
We're always ask by Francis
to go deep.
Beyond the fibres, the shriek, the contortion,
is the tender insight into the human condition,
how we are trapped somewhere in the Milky Way
that has no North, South, East or West,
but languidly floating and slowly spinning
if we have Eyes
wide enough to take in the Cosmos.
(Dated 9 January 2018)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem