My breath rises
to the edge of space
and pauses
at the nexus of perfection,
then falls,
driven by waves of fire,
by strong hands guided
through dust and rain,
through ice, through
the shining
vortex
to my upturned face
where a single dropp dies
and fills me with
the storm's desire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Like it. Like the last stanza. May i invite you to read my new poem Called bluesman.