Intrepid scenes flowed abundantly towards unknown realms,
unfathomed - scanning the memories of many years, attempting
to locate the source, and never coming near.
While shadows march into the light beyond, their images bend
and fold in half, tucked neatly inside of nature's drawers,
all laid to rest, still silent with copious thoughts racing,
trying to find their purpose.
Negligently searching - selecting piles to be deciphered in
some distant future, hopes of tomorrow lie crumpled on the
bottoms of today's unwanted piles.
No one actually wants to relive the capriciousness of intrepid
scenes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem