He has a fighting-chance of working with his figment,
The figment he remembers for all his long-term memory.
A field of ingoing thoughts waits to be proclaimed,
The jeep of all worries is in his whole span of life.
The jaws of youth were closed and it felt like a jaunt
That carried from noisome events, stupid occasions,
The nocturnal ideas indicated new options of disgust.
By the off chance, a thought collected to straighten,
But it turned out that the figment was reddening his face.
The figment of imagination, an officious training of the mind,
Protected him as if, and one day felt like a bird’s rectrix,
For the imagination was given revenge afterwards.
The reuse of the thoughts gained pace, speeded up,
And returfed the spectrum of thought called the Mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem