In my conscious bud
I have taken a leap;
A leap to elongate my historic dot
and in turn,
threading a grip.
I am now a growth
crossing signals
in a charity van.
Pigeons spotted sharing
their alms
Flight and need
wired, igniting sparks.
Did I fruit?
I began with a skin
Now I live in silken coats, embroidered;
The embroidery none
but patches of green lamenting blue.
Each needle from
diving to emerging - a novel.
Each climax - an apple mixed
unlike optimist mangoes.
That which is full
appears true.
In an opted falsity
dwell those
who crack the clue.
The mass
The space
The black.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem