is but random dots
lines
for that matter scribbles
that interconnect
3 dimensionally
and when viewed
from a certain Earth angle
they appear real
when in fact
they are virtual when
laid flat
on a flat canvas
before it is canvas
or even flat.
The man picks up
his conch shell cell phone
and virtually echoes
to the virtual world
his non-creation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem