poetry is about getting real
with oneself while we go find
oneself in the mace of traffic
of human expressions
acquired or self invented
so that we can use them
effectively as a gift to cross
the bridge to human hearts
it is about carrying roses or orchids
to beautify humanity or be
be at a loss of what to do in the face
of such challenge falling head over heel
it is about a butterfly that hides
itself in a harsh dried leaf to one day
finds its real self and flies away with a divine
expression, flipping, flapping, flipping
didacting melancholy through a prismatic
and honeyed state of transcience
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem