It's the welts on the forearms and the back
of hands that tell of the long voyages of life.
It's no longer the peeled tan that reminds us
of the sun beating down the sandy seashores.
It's not the flight of the seagulls or their
artistically splattered guano on the boulders
that attracts the gaze. Now is the Winter part
of what used to be ordinary and now each day
is praised when our shuffle concentrates on
the shuffleboard court. Long distance strategy
plays a primordial role when knocking
the opponent's puck out of the triangulum.
It is the dilemma that faces us when we miss
understanding the Holy Trinity and instead
replace it with the triumvirate of vectors' triality.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem