Lilies opened into the outer room.
They almost overshadowed the entire place.
It was there in bright recesses the talk
Began, the colors, the aromas filling what
They knew of life with urgent, direct
Fragrance, now where they recall each moment.
A conversation erupted between
A stray image of Monet and his sincere strokes,
Dark talk and dark weathered ideas. In their
Makeshift vase, it is a question of intentions,
Who to turn to when beauty's a problem.
Any two words can be an oxymoron.
The corner, now inhabited by growth,
Comes at them in a way that's inescapable;
A duel to the (near) death of screeds, like
The corner itself produces a miracle.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem