The falling pins are mild
As they have no ripples in the air
Nor any tearing through the stresses, not one struggle
To the vagaries of thought
As if a resignation is being staged
In the aisles is the expectant hourglass
Empty seats are filled with the carcasses of hope
That which has been replaced and nurtured
In the making of a play which must be about
The future we left for the making
In the streets of our growing wisdom
That which was slowly turning mildly for the awakening
Of one dream and many
That we were singing about and beating with our steps to
The joys of our creation that we only knew to follow
Rising and falling and missing and standing up
To the tides that may not be returning to the beats of dawn
Or the saplings of a ruminating soul that was in waiting
For one single moment of that doubtless glory
When mind was meeting the heart
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem