This is a large chair, room for two
But all this world hurries past
So many different yet all the same
Their worlds alone, they're worlds
alone.
There are too few who radiate
Not giving, but being in itself.
No time.
Some day the thoughts they cram
Won't count to win.
Success will be in being.
We are a generation of light
walkers, slow talkers -
We rise above the Earth.
No imitation. Bet there's real pain,
thrashing desires stripping them bare.
Yet all they show is showmanship
The art of construction, real obstruction
to Arriving. Deriving security from
the form. Alone within the norm.
Even the odd are the same.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem