Red stars forming in lines of sunsetical mystery,
containing answers of questions never asked.
Beacons of ideas form creativity in requiem masses
of position, rolling quietly around like marbles
in a bowl.
Quickly taking in every particle and atom of being
as long as rhythms of quiescence continue to hold
and pull me in directions of exacting measurements.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem