Greenwich Village
late fifties
in the Artist's Studio
standing on a ladder
arms outstretched
delivering the message
spreading the word
making sure
that things are not
the same, the same, the same
ever again
for the future
in the future
lost in the present
that's lost itself
howling at the world
howling, howling, howling
in the eternal bliss
of the moment
that never passes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem