Beating of this heart is incessant, taking self down pathways
through literature.
Pounding the earth, watching powdery dust form all around,
taking self into realms of intensive thought.
Nothing else mattering, but the ideas continuing to fall
through designs and dangling gently into this mind's depths.
Once again, pounding starts and never ends until I have
written all of life into poetry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It is truly a lovely feeling to imagine that in such an inteensive moment thy poetry starts.