Fresh dust
bevels the
stagnant rot
of complacency
hollowing out
better purpose.
Are we
the imaginings
of seraphic
spirits and
demons rivaling
the majesty
of living?
When plumbing
the shaft
of consciousness,
linear thought
corrupts with
persistence the
notion of
time elements
folding membranes
with complicity
most jaunty
without regard
to infinity
within each
daring creation
etched firm
upon clay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem