A sentence is like a vine
That produces good red wine.
Phrases grow out of roots
And words have shoots
Flowering in the mind
Like memories that are kind.
Words are epiphytes
With jungle overwrites,
And the earth is rich and deep
With words that creep.
My hand blackens when I dig
Through a dictionary
Looking for a blood berry.
Deep down I suspect
We are all incorrect
When in the compost
I find something amiss,
Can we save existence
If the words go extinct?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem