Desire. Sunlight. Soft wind. Written in the morning.
Life is a precious gift and not to be wasted.
In the house, once home to intelligent women,
surrounded by forest, ravines, feral creatures
and a thousand books
a lonely man already destitute
his wife already buried many years ago and far away
in a land he could never call his own
where he was went forward
creating a future
which would belong to those who got there
how many books there were to read
the search for the meaning of transient nature
and impudent knowledge or
transient knowledge and impudent nature.
I can never be less or more
than free to sift a meaning
from what is known
and what no one knows.
I write. I read. I live another day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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