Twisting into a regular rhythm, beating to the tune of my imagination.
Talent shaking itself from rafters in the ceiling, turning them loose in a mind of regeneration.
Taking hold of every loose idea forming in pools of crystal sand, showing us pictures of what our future's will become.
Beating rhythms constantly, touching senses of this mind, reverberating in caverns of stifled beauty, awaiting returns of brilliant voicing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem