sometimes, i feel getting to your poetic self
is like prospecting for petroleum?
you dig through layers and layers of years
before you could get to the subtle aspects
of your pscyhe, where you either find black
gold or just echoes of disappointments
the morass of black, if you work hard enough
can be refined to run minds like posh cars on the streets
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
An excellent analogy with superb imagery. Some lovely sounds: 'morass of black' is wonderful. S :)