Living with no pockets,
My memories lie in a pile.
Wandering with no purpose,
I’ve ignored them for a while.
Sitting in the dark now
Scribbling insubstantial things,
I yearn for the completion
Which knowledge often brings.
There is no going back though,
No way to find the lost.
I don’t possess what drudging through
That coveted pile would cost.
Still my thoughts flock to that horde
As soon as they’ve been had.
Deserting the remnants that wander emptily,
Lost...and little less than mad.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem