Timeless ages of specific ideas form along lines of
imagination, energizing a flood of words, shaping
them into exquisite molds of distinction.
Worrying about nothing, finding ways to become
contemplative icons for future days.
Softly ignoring steps of indignation along shores
of definitive explanations.
Folding remnants into piles of cloth-filled memories,
hinged on left-over images of childhood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem