Farewell Emily,
Editors snip, cut, shape.
This forum is populated by the wild.
The wilderness of times.
Old, current, ones in the womb.
Yellow leaves, green ones, buds yet to bloom.
There is no form, no structure, there is no bar,
No altar.
Wilderness is by default in growth mode.
Wilderness by mindless technocracy is in plastic mode.
You provided it a burst zone,
A opening through the bits and bytes alone,
I am thankful for your efforts
Which remain carved on the poets
Not those dead,
Not those alive,
But those whose hearts beat in the womb.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem