The mirror I look into, shows you nothing, not even sin.
No face is transparent, It sees right through you.
Ink blots, picture filled, formless never spilled, the stain
flows upward, downward, pain is a voice of paint.
Lead is bright, consumed in void, it's leaf has killed you.
You lay as a marker, vivid soiled in beauty's, evaporation.
I wander in search of nothing, I was never alone, on a brush.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great poem indeed. It has that flow which grips the reader to the end.10++