Freddy viewed things through the eyes
of an artist. The sun was a sphere on fire;
a tree was a cylinder with a cone on top,
or a parabola. A human being
consisted of spheres and cubes
all stacked precariously on top
of one another.
And he saw emotions
as spirals and intersecting lines,
all seeking order, all bounded
by circumference and calculations.
But try as he would,
he could not disect the feeling
that he never really saw the sun,
the tree, another human being—
only forms, not substance.
Life, for him, was a mathematics textbook,
without the solutions.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem