every turn of my feet
with the turn of the knob
head hung down the brick lain path and steps
that i so gladly go alone yet again
and don't let this smile fool you
although thats what it knows best
well what piece is yet to set
and which stone is yet to cast
know not you, know not i, yet i yearn
and my ears itch and burn to no sound
and my mind has been known to be rash
yet perhaps there is no stone
yet perhaps there is no piece
yet perhaps it's as simple as me
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem