Sailing through interstellar spaces,
putting cosmic surf horses through their paces;
clouds of astral dust following non-existent faces,
looking for a rendez-vous in imaginary places.
Why does the mental traveller carry so much precious treasure?
Hoard it, hide it, fight for it
(and repent it at his leisure) .
Bury it and lose the map
(and wonder where he hid it) .
A voice
blowing
in the cosmic wilderness,
crying out, “I did it! ”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem