Atimes, I wallow in shallow thoughts
Vivid portraits of the event stays
Sand paths never were ways
Could there be different devoted salts?
What if my drums were dead?
Like an aftermath silent war field
I’ll be gullible free and less swayed –
From any sweet chatter; I’ll be safely sealed.
Had I had smoked sockets
And knoweth not a slight light
I’d be swindled not by any feign inspects
Instincts I’ll follow then, not insight
My paramour I’ll prefer by intuit not hue
As in our entangle, I feel a glowing glee.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem