A novel of mind
breaking forlorn into
a cluttered coo of color.
A soft murmur
brings forth the words
written in a time
of genius,
but a despondent
response of a
turning page
leaves the story
deprived of development.
They say to
guard the spine,
so that not every chapter
is forfeit.
Do we behold
an era for reading
once again?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem