Turning inside, walking aisles of brain matter,
deciding what to think and write about.
Circumstances climbing out of boxes that were
neatly packed and stored away, privately
wandering into tangents of their own making.
Colliding thoughts are penetrating wonder and
curiosity with their unmistakable rhetoric,
playing with imagined ideals, focusing on what
is left of life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem