Introverted all of life, yet an extrovert when it comes
to voicing what I think and feel through poetry.
Losing my voice in silent undertakings of thought, not
able to speak of what I am thinking orally.
Just putting a pen in my hand, you will soon find the
meaning of this voice in silent shouts of writing.
There you can read it all upon pages torn continually
from an inner mind and intellect's imagination.
So taken with the rhythms of life, that writing claims my
being in depths that no one else can fathom, not even self.
Incessant thoughts moving in time with tides of everlasting
oceans over the earth.
Peaceful prayers finding their way into my interior play-
ground of prose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem