there is a flow of the river
like a stream of
my consciousness
that does not mind
driftwood
it minds its own sound
of flowing
on and on
there is no complaint
what burden is carried
what winding ways
to ease
that which is held with
least resistance
there is no rock so high
and hard
there is no obstruction
this river
that goes on with its song
on and on and on,
mindless of everything
the stones and birds staring.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem