You cannot read a man's poetry
without trying on his thoughts,
even if only for a moment or two.
You cannot read of loss,
unconfirmed hope, dread or expectation
without a sense of the minutiae of him,
harrowing his lonely way through time.
You cannot write a poem
without placing hidden quantities of yourself
within, revealing the yet undiscovered
by the very words you choose.
If life and prosody sometimes get in the way
of alliteration and pure metaphor,
well you could hardly be blamed;
living through each hour tediously, as you do
second by second by second.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you for allowing me to walk the streets of your sentiments. As poets, we travel without maps, to where the words lead. Well scripted!