In summertime abandon
sweet wafts of unknown airs
caress his face.
Honking and laughing and
guys on phones;
The city absorbs them all.
Fruitful flies amid a
torment of irresistability.
Forever surrendered amid
the jostling din,
the unending joy,
the playful indolence,
and transcendent ethics.
The spirit of the beehive
is no match
for the shimmering,
squall-like conflagration.
This unholy mess!
It would have it no other way.
Beauty is what is.
Who are we to judge?
Dive in!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem