Writing poetry
is making honey for the unseen,
or from the unseen, perhaps.
It's being busy building sweet combs
from faults, memories and failures
while remembering the importance
of keeping an earthly link
while remaining part of the Outerworld.
It's walking a tightrope
for the Outerworld has no boundaries,
only scattered seeds
sometimes burning, called stars then,
that serve as six points
with which we make a specific place
in which to move and float.
2 august o8
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem