Going through this mind with a fine toothed comb, locating
the tiniest thoughts hiding within.
Finding that they are utterly intense and familiar, always
needling invisibly, keeping themselves down in interior
depths.
Yet, needling incessantly with the finding of each of them,
racing clocks of time, spreading self throughout generations.
Allowing all of them to be expressed in many volumes of
poetry, at long last resting in palms of interior libraries.
Waiting to be read and explained in educational environments.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I too have an interior library of random thoughts waiting to be preserved in a poem or pensee. In fact, it's a wonderful image of our interior life, which is one of your key themes: recognizing it, nourishing it, expanding it. The interior life is what suffer the greatest loss in a materialistic society, and your poems are restoring it to its rightful place of significance in your poems and in our minds. The interior libraries you invented in this poem can be a place of refuge, a necessary shelter for thoughts too fragile for the ruckus of modern life.