The poet
speaks with tongues of fire
his balm
of warm air rising
rising with the flow
of blood
caressing
vessels and veins
palpitating
in his burning heart
yearning and dancing
in a ritual of words
glowing
with crepuscular glee
his mind scurrying
scribbling patterns
nibbling ink
red
black
blue
sometimes his naked hands
hurrying
trying to make
images real
in a kaleidoscopic world
of ipods and iphones.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem