Exercising my mind with Chopin, limbering up, stretching,
bending, twisting, touching the sky of my heart with novel
issues as they fall and rest before me.
Deciding which parts go well together, mixing and matching
abstractions at will.
Bringing everything to fruition on a window sill of my
mind as it looks out onto an open wasteland filled with
hopes and desires, waiting to be plucked and pruned to
become satisfying rhymes created from ruins of yesteryear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem