there is a flower that
you did not pick because you did not find it
to your liking
'there is a standard for the picking
there are rules for what beauty is', you tell your friend
the stone is not beautiful
you use it for hitting someone's head
that moron
there is a poem and a non-poem
a combatant and a non-combatant
self-executing and non-self executing
there is a none for
fullness
i have confidence
and soon even in a hundred awakenings i shall prove you wrong
there is a song in
a chant
there is a chant
in a sorrow that is silent
there is always light
in a candle even if
it is not lighted
tastes change, rulers are ousted
the ants become kings
the winds turn to ice to stone to fish
everything is possible
you must watch out, but you shall not reach that point
you do not live that long
like a layer of histories
hidden in a rock
in the lines of
a tree's trunk
there is poetry in narration
there is poetry in chaos
there is beauty in the ugliness of things
in the madness of men there is still a hidden
humanity
there is a song in wood
there is a lesson learned in paths
you just not have the power yet to see all these
there is a tomorrow in the past
there is a story in the blank wall
there is grief in a smile
there is life in the bones of men
there is still an undiscovered law in mass murder
there is at the end
peace in a nuclear destruction.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem