It is not a thing of choice or content
It is in all forms a cursed sight
To move away from it, all fight
It bears the stamp of contempt
Yet it transforms the light
to a need- holy and important.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It is not a palpable thing But the absence of quite striking A coolness in its depths That colors black and white Into shades of grey Reminiscent of the rainbow