The madman that sits on my chair
Picks up the breadcrumbs
From the coffee table
But leaves one for the wandering little ant
Who crosses the big checkered desert
With unwavering resolve.
He also fancies himself a scout of sorts
Foraging for lost memories
In the vast frozen desert
Of his withering mind
And wonders if a heartless controller
Ensconced in an Olympian summit
Has wiped away the last little scrap
Of a once lovingly treasured remembrance
With his unforgiving hand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem