Poetry is the multiplication
Of brush strokes painted in thought
In rhythm, and-in rhyme spidery spun
Eight eyes on an octave line wrought.
Spinning; leafing-out all over quietly.
Digesting and dissolving internally
Or else they just-hold me, uncontrollably,
Frenetically, silently, dangling almost for fun.
Until a flower, emerges from a landscape drunken.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem