there are works that wont be finished
after a thousand rewrites
the mind holds a larger sky
the years glide like the leaves
in the flame of autumn
and you hold the thought that
the pastiche of thoughts can look
a better season with time
like how wine matures
There are works that wont be finished
after a thousand rewrites
and after years that glide away
like leaves blasting the red of autumn
you hold the thought that the pastiche
of your thoughts can look
better than it should
There are works that won't be finished
after a thousand rewrites
the years glide away
like red leaves blasting autumn
your mind turns and turns and
you still find a larger sky coming your way
to improve the flow of your verses
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem