in the form it once took....
not back, no...
but returned...
as though having been out on lend...
new colors, sabled strokes
... newer shades, hues...
finer mercies, of a scorched sort...
fully dressed... unclothed....graceful..and awkward in truth...(is retreat to the familiar an option... a thought that can be seen and heard...)
grinning like foccacia....
folded like a wren...
the heart of it a tumbled stone...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem