Things exist only because they happen over and over again.
These habits start to imply as infinite that there is never an end.
And sole this measure absconded from what is otherwise unknown.
Shows face simply that it is a part of it.
Synonymating being and tone.
Its tone reflects that it exists and perhaps otherwise it would not.
So go ahead and claim it does not, so that is what you got.
Something else tells you, you shouldn't and so you become only you should.
And this is how Identity becomes, and overrules as the indisputable good.
That exists only because it is you looking at it be-
and so its image does reflect and becomes only that you can see.
And amidst all this definition, you make something all your own.
And that too like reflection is image that it is yours.
But all it is is a memory that that it were and that it
has no open doors.
It has enwrapped you, and defined you, and become you in what it does reflect.
And somewhere it is all still happening, it being what you saw/ now cathect.
And by this function, it shall prove-your senses were too raw.
That all it was that it had ever been was simply because it was what you saw.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem