I hear the volume in your look,
so straight sharp like a hook,
the carves on the wood
that built my neighborhood,
thirsty for those letters in the book
that changed the crook,
the rhythm of an ever flowing steam,
that gave life to a dying dream,
the blink from a blazing flame
that conquered the giant blame,
if change I must get, the pace I must set.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem