Interior fans blowing memories and their images across
barren deserts of life, looking for a place to alight,
seeing their reflections in shadows of fan blades.
Circulating them in intellect and throwing them against
light, illuminating each of them on walls of this innate
poetical mind.
Justifying their existence in depths of feelings and
emotions, as living continues to commence with each new
morning throughout the years.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem