By the time a maturity awakens,
In the minds of those seduced to stay asleep...
An existence of truth that has always been available,
Will be as useless as those wishing to eat steak...
Carved up on a plate,
And with a readiness to satiate...
But without neither real or false teeth.
And although it may be 'gummed'...
The act of facing what could have been done,
Is a pointless one.
Since there is no point,
In turning back a clock.
If the ticking of the tock of it...
Has long come to a stop!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem