Hitting a wall, not being able to pass through any barricades
before the next call of rhythms.
Straying around the pavement, holding onto the totality of
what they thought reality was going to be.
Placed in many picture albums, kept safely in their places,
deeply set in cavernous trunks of old.
Antiques and ancient knowing of combinations only we can
know, as we travel along the pavement.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem