Paintings hanging on walls through passages, opened,
leading into catacombs of yesterday.
Ancient patterns titillating feelings of inner designs
without any notice.
Recognizing, realizing where they come from, slicing and
dicing every fiber as they pass by.
Knowing there's no fault to be blamed anywhere, just an
effervescent touch of life, lending it's ear to an inner
voice.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
that inner voice is all there is thank you for lovely scriptures merry Christmas RS