It is that perennial immateriality dwelling between living and dying
crouched in the corners and grappling by the hinges
only to remain unseen;
We weave our web of what we believe we understand
of the relationship of our acts and events
only to remain misunderstood;
From that odd wisp of steam of heated discussions
to the urgent hiss of a new page calling;
I teeter on that thin ice -
That single space of uncertainty -
And I ask
'What am I doing here?'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem