Like a billowing silken gown that's drawn
Constricted through a finger ring to show
It's sheerness, a diaphanous chiffon
Pulled through the unyielding die of Now
Into a cord that binds the very stars
In this unique aorist pose - this instant
Funnels all futures to one point, and bars
The unchosen wraiths, compacts this moment
Into past which frays as it recedes,
Fanning once again into gauze and mist;
Each cosmos melts as it succeeds
The prior firmament it just dismissed.
So, is my true self Now's fixed golden ring,
Or Time's fleet gossamer, pulled through, flowing?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem