Today having read poetry written years ago, seeing for the
first time perhaps how unhappy life was when younger, many
feelings and emotions swimming in oceans of sorrow.
Noticing thoughts were being focused interiorly, a self -
centeredness of sorts for that's the only place one can start
recognition of self and one's meaning.
Later writing poetry, trying to return to a recalcitrant
time in the past where all this took place, finding it very
difficult, wondering why it would be so.
Suddenly realizing that it has already been lived through
and experienced many times in life already, having written
about them in thousands of poems explicitly through the years.
Now there is nothing more to say about how it felt back then,
it cannot be realistically retold because the passing of time
has yellowed with age.
Now other experiences need to be gone through and written
about with the same fervor as in the past, their flavor will
be abundantly clear in our minds.
Writing of these new experiences and situations as we walk
our final pathways of destiny and fate, putting them upon
pages where life ends and the book is put aside at last in
favor of going to heaven.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oh how I'm looking foward to going to heaven. There we will meet all the poets of the past.