Walking little page
Across promising paths
Ink blots on its front
Dust on its back
It wasn’t complete
But it was off
To rely on its end
It wonders where to begin
The thought
From which it was born
Were of simple things
That parted
Like cracked bark
It pants under the sun
It gets closer to its better end
But where should it begin?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem