a poet, at best,
is merely the bridge
between the small child
inside each of us,
and the Mother's breast!
the simple striking
of the common match,
that lights the fire,
the broom that sweeps,
yet has no name or need...
the words of the prayer
we pray with every breath!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Superb, you're still one of my favorites and it's easy see why. Great poem.