Queries of yesterday's youth still haunt moments of
today at times.
Collecting afterthoughts like oregano, scattering
them about like flavoring on a pizza.
Food for thought, taste touching a center of the
mind, as savoring it's image for some time later
when deep within imagination's cells, creating from
it's eternal well of being.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem