Drum beating for the opening of the next set, pen in hand,
already writing into it's tempos, not delaying a single
moment.
Ever ready, finding self submersed in a bluened light where
this existence is alone in writing, a total delight in this
temporary life.
Freedom of creativity, liberty of this soul and mind as they
enjoy the wonder and curiosity of melodies and harmonies
being played by the band.
A complete joy as rhythms talk to this brain and mind then
transferring all of them into intellect to be arranged to
coded rhythms of music.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem