I
To write this: To be writing absolutely nothing but to feel so much.
II
(If poetry’s great power lies in its important position as the ultimate language of expression-if poetry’s greatness comes from the great essences within the great verse-then what magnificence does this meaningless, parenthesized non-verse possess?)
III
If what fills me could be shown better than with quick glimpses of hazy forms.
IV
Filling into and seeping out from every one of my pours, cascading on top of and pounding within my head, floating throughout the center and balancing on the edges of my consciousness-all of these beauteous images of my anonymous friends, constricting my breath with twelve-billion phantom hands’ pressure.
V
To be so shamefully incapable of poetic articulation; to be writing this nothingness to capture the everything of my current Muse-less state.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem