i walk that way
after we talk much
i stop somewhere
a shade of a tree
or was it when i
went over the fence
oh, it does not matter
anymore, where or when
what bothers me is this:
i miss something that is
crisp, or an inch, shorter
even, succinct, or just
a word perhaps, and then
i rest in a cave and i
arrive at this dream:
drifting, sans words.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ric, such an interesting write worthy of 10+++