Triangular squares taking shape, forming in my mind.
Eliciting patterns of novel thought, sliding across
memory's unconscious paths of rightful thinking.
Contrary to pillars of strength, all eyes fall instead,
upon the weakest, least of all, manner of being.
Waving red and silent beacons to passers-by, steering
them away, never letting anything close enough to matter.
Piloting music down strains of unfamiliar tunes, catching
etudes at triangular moments in time, while maintaining
the single square rootedness of sublime concentration from
within.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem