Singeing the edges of life with death's insistence.
In all matters of the heart, nothing can be understood, because
there is no understanding beyond life.
All is rendered into spirits of the dead where no foresight can
be examined.
So many thoughts trying to penetrate spheres of talent, wanting
to be expressed in words of poetical interludes.
Nothing can be taken from innate talent, it must be given in
the light of illumination and given freely by the individual
poet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem