If only I could smooth all my ripples
and drive the hidden current of my soul
to wide seas beyond sight in soundless flow
through obscure paths hidden to searching eyes
that note mirrored sparkles of foreign light,
if only I could give and not become
an alms bowl for love, praise and sympathy,
I would then so silently merge myself
with all that will ultimately receive
that which I am, a poor show of rich dreams
sown in a field that suffers just a drought
of labour of love, a broken melody.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem