Towering over you
the ego grows from seed to flower,
like a mirror image of oneself.
Knowing it's ways as it does of you,
it grows, grows and grows...
Until it feels ready to bloom.
Deep down beneath,
where echo's fill the well,
roots secure itself.
And out goes the flower,
a perfect shape, a perfect smell
far more perfect than words can tell.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem