Spilling the outsides of God
was never a Sunday for him.
Everyday was turned downward
to meet the needs of the insides.
Beginning with speaking to God
was taking measures by the note
If I kept close eye toward the arrows
I would eventually find them.
They drift easy when God runs through them
But in all honesty I keep looking.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem