A wakening breath, a hint of morning, absorbing mindless
empty storage of memories.
Winding amidst tall pines struck by lightening, ideas are
being enkindled in flames.
Zig-zagging turmoil, trudging through forests of thoughts,
spread blanket thin, like dead leaves dying on the forest
floor.
Matching colors, designing patterns, fitting words together
with understanding and meaning.
Lengthy discourses noted throughout time in orderly fashion,
solemnly continued, properly adapted, as night-time darkness
descends on us in silent slumber.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem