History as we know it is quite brief, so lift a pen and bend a sheaf, history's victorious rarely win—
Let me speak of victory, in the meak tone of defeat, but let it be known I sometimes win—
You may find here samples of this mystery—that history is born-again!
I stopped calling things eachother
Long before I knew
I'd found a way between the walls—
Where I might always go—
Where I might go to sing—
Sing to the remnants and the blooms
And before I returned—
Sing of how easy it was, and as easy as I could name—
Watch the sunlight turn again—
Against each dying name in twilight,
Broke upon the hungry deed,
Of evincing intellectual myth from iconic starlight
As metaphysical as a fish.
While they were floundering, I was pondering,
No more wandering through the dark tunnels of grim determination—
For no! It is time to grow in a thousand-folded folds,
For which we need an infinite fuel!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem