the years are
carving tools
that make a
sculpture out
of this crude
wood,
the days cut and
the weeks shape
what seems to be
odd and irregularly
created
ten years or more
shall put the finishing
touches of your
humanity
spontaneity comes and
makes you speak
and leaves you there
writing some more
what you have not
written ever since.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem