in his memoir the young man wrote chapter after chapter without the use of punctuation his images bled from one to the other his words were nomadic monks roaming the page having exhausted the stories of his young life the man decide he had arrived at an ending he wrote one last line nonchalantly he ended on a period when he woke the next morning he found the white pages void of print
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well articulated and nicely brought forth. Thanks for sharing.