its amazing what you can make of nothing.
like the food you could make of which you have in your barren of a cupboard.
there's always a way out. how do good ideas appear?
or do we just discover something that was already there.
do our minds all think the same, or are we just a mutation of the same brain.
people say we come from trees and plants, but how do you explain art?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem