The pale face of a portrait, keeping
still, everyone looses a color
in every life-affirming music constructed
from the notes and lines of the unknown,
the unknowable, the unconscious;
you can travel, beyond constraints,
far and wide in a magic carpet,
but you still have to rub the lamp
that unleashes the genie, the maker
of the carpet; your lamp is
your world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem