in the Sacred Wood of
T.S. Elliot - immature poets immitate
mature poet steal -
but they can't ever duplicate my mind
a nobody's nothing as
the fools think of
like a hazy mist
peering in vain
as critiques frolicking
in gaiety rain
they can't ever plagiarized mine
my thoughts are extremely unfamiliar
a wispy proclivity
like gossamer threads
twisting your mind
blurry are all my manuscript words
striking subtle private experiences
against the world, against inner self
then how can they immitate and steal mine
my deep words of personal encounter
not unless i bargain these for
narrow-thought-buying
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a true and some times we see narrow-thought buying........an fantastic write......