I never met him
But I know his work
Imagine how valiantly
He moved through the winds
Caressing the elements.
Lines never wiggled
Or his lettering flawed
He sat there and drew perfection
No doubt
He is what children aspire to be.
When break-time came
He puffed on a stick
Reflecting on details
Filled with spirits
Tell by his blazing stare.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem