Living on the fringes of
faith, you become epiphanous.
A halo chases you, its stomach
coming out, like a starfish
to engulf you.
Small winnings, I was
no prophet, as I knew
myself, still unsure, still faltering.
I become a gymnosophist,
managing my destiny.
A death ago, I was
young, walking down the lane
of unlearning. Coming of
pain has made all the difference.
An old man in the sea of emotions.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem