Raw materials are the substance of paint.
Painted with color splashed the paint.
Hence come forth to me and show paint.
Yellow has the constancy of your hair.
Green eye of the leaves,
from the bush that floats on the stream of dreams.
Toes painted, oyster pink, crescent black, hue of blue.
Small is the tight stream of golden pure rain.
When shalt of it show your impulse, as for sunlight.
There within is the brown roots grounded discretion,
and like the moon, when it shines.
Each cheek like that which was once by he said,
is firmly then moved and when turned.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
love this poem, great concept! imma check some more of your stuff now! have a look at some of mine, i just started writing.