The bubbling words percolate,
Wondering where I've been of late,
Needing life in their expression,
Muted by my Art's regression;
And thus by Art's necessity,
I deposit my sad history;
Less than what I was before,
More paralyzed but tempered pure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I get it, that's how it is.