Staccato blessings falling onto expressions of hopeful
desire, not letting them be torn from their hopeful
pedestals in life's prayerful circle.
Hurrying through the tablets of yesteryear, learning
everything about me in visions of my image when just
a child in my mother's womb.
Not even if it's not the entire truth of my beginnings,
so be it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem