True poetry is to prose
not as dancing is to walking, but
as going on a pilgrimage is to
running for a bus.
There isn’t much of it around.
Truth is not a dancer, but a leper
at the gate beyond the honey, the money,
the glamour.
Truth is a stammer, not a song.
The world and all things wonderful
go wrong.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem