These places, this work, was once all so simple and vague and bland.
It did not seem to matter what there was to understand.
The harmless pitter-patter meant not feet but simply sand-
Bare Feet, Things Neat. All composed a sense of being well despite….
the chronic whine and wonder hid somehow: living through the fight and flight.
It did not mean one's work had ended then and There…
exchanged for effort and frustrationwas as quickly breath without a care.
And sweet sensation would return so quick; ithad become so scary.
It took some time to click. There was nothing to be done to change that sight.
No orchestrated stage nor limpid fight.
One's will could not impose a change to set things right.
Each now would deal with life from their own circumference of Sun and Time.
What space in captivation now pronounced, Through BEAST so plain and simple
They should have known that it would be.
That no one's will but its could matter/ He nor She.
In every sound and symbol- mocking out with glee:
That now there was nothing to do
Nor nothing could be done.
The Final Impact of a Setting Sun.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem