Ideas, sweet and sallow, loaf around,
and in their own laws, aren't bound
by some strange mortality,
that somehow ends in rationality.
But suppose, for a moment, take a second's time
that such a thing were to be twisted, in common rhyme.
No longer itself, it's again gone native,
as all things do, with time, be abated.
Such a thing, such a twist, such a panapolyctic turn,
towards the worst, not towards the brain but instead the tongue,
a reason to discuss, not to run,
nor even to subtract or add a sum.
an idea, a word, both mean the same,
when made but part of life's great game.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem