Mind walking into images of perfection that are being held
up in annals of time and literature, sequences of beauty
falling into an order that will never exist except in poetry.
This mere poet living in depths of musical rhythms that will
constantly intensify as each and every day passes by, leaving
a pathway filled with imagery.
Traces of a life that have already been lived on earth, now
being seen all around the world in silent words of prose for-
ever.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem