actually it is more of a diary.
or a marker more like a dog-mark,
an ear to a page
of my life, and that of the life of
the other i love,
or even of humanity, as though i walk
that far, and rest upon a pavement,
cut a flower on the road and begin to
appreciate what i miss, and then i
record it, in this.
there will be significance of what
is not understood, or of such matter of
utter importance, yet so devalued along
the way, and you let go of everything,
drop the bag, and simply look around
for the unexpected,
and then i write this, in this, and
want nothing more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem