I hold a long sable torch,
Currently dead to energy,
And put a stare into the mirror
Concavely doming the bulb;
A photonic dart in waiting to misanthropist quietus.
I tilt it up, then down,
Watching many mes extend into view
And gathering into the centre to
Slip; battling eachother fall
Back out of existence.
The third time I lay my distorted mutations
Circled around the dart.
He is subdued; he cannot shoot.
But yet it
And leaked through the glass,
Paining my eyes blinder,
And my faces, supposed to be in intaglio,
The dart's galamatias on their glass plynth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem