When a poem is done
My soul is purged,
The torment released,
In nouns and verbs.
I sift the prison
Of my soul
And the words run out
My bitter toil.
For a while
There is some relief
My soul is cleansed,
My pains decreased;
But who would have thought
Would have had the impression
That in my tiny skull
Marched such a procession?
Of opinions inked
Of distinction made
Of memories linked,
A vast parade.
A ceaseless flow
Of subtle notes
Where do they go?
Once they’re unyoked.
Out into the wide world
Of Pradip and Elaine
Strangers I’d love to meet
On a cross-continental train.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A ceaseless flow Of subtle notes Where do they go? Once they’re unyoked a question to ponder from a riff that digs deeper to go beyond.