fine line of brush strokes
my emotion rides so gentle
like sand on desert mourn
cool tickling my toes spokes
shrinking to embrace a few
left with my fading steps
my eyes retrace your fingers
holding my breathe calmly
not to disturb fluid flow
i'm a zen master i sense
your finger with inner force
combing every fiber to submission
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem