Reacting totally to rhythmic beats of a past that continues
to haunt with it's ghosts.
Being constantly taunted by the memories, finding that only
silence takes all of hurt and sorrow into the folds of empty
entitlement.
Tantamount to the incessant purposes of intellect, purpose
senses it's being and follows it all into cellars of another
continuum.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I find so often in your work, the writers tear drop on the page, emotion the machine behind poetry, poetry the device to do something good with sadness.