did i tell you
that a poet was not born in a day?
oh, it takes a lifetime
to become one,
it takes a thousand years
of sensitivity
to feel the thorns of a worm
the skin of the porcupine
it will take another thousand years
to tell which is green
which is blue
from the blind eyes of the
fingers
i must tell you
the poems may have come
not in trickles
for they come not but in a flash flood
in a flash of lightning
stabbing the mountains
in the roar of thunder in the bellies
of the tigers
oh well, they have all been there
we only need to discover.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem