It is enough, what I felt,
When hope was conflict,
And I designed my body into rhymes
To include my hope as love.
I wear not these heads of skill or lovely ability,
But to mention the grace of numbers
Over wonder is their toil.
Feeling of wonder is not of this world,
Yet a toss of food was an eating of the world
And the cosmos.
I grow warm with the change of the sun,
As a heat-source or an object of ornamentation.
I felt enough of this world, and then again
I did.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I only have one word for you.... Amazing.