In the darkest recesses of memory it lay,
in all its fragmented finesse.
Crumpled along the frills of frock
or as an alibi in locks of a young women.
On the travellers shoulder it circles the world
through the vocals of transient travellers, it emeges
magnificient, timeless, pure as a load of prial grief.
You see in it the fragrance of a shadow flower
sown flower of its own fruit.
By pointing fingers you count flowers, yet to be fruits.
The contorted contours of feeling swells up
in the one who survives you, your time with a thin wry smile.
The ancient sap leaps high up in the veins
heart shrunks in excess of being
trying to behold the everlasting,
completing the circle of myth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Underneath the myth, This is more than a tale... let me tell you my most fav line By pointing fingers you count flowers, yet to be fruits. it contains hope...and the other lines also has good meaning! _Soul, Unwritten Soul