get up pressure, break through
splatter
egg
on your face
seed
in your eyes
burns in your fingers
itch
grey wind, cold glass
& separation
so hard, the passion
turns you to activity
a semblance
of a creator
that glimmer that
I am that I am
self
contained
O that I am contained
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem