sad to say
i mourn for all of us here
we claim we shape our own destinies
our hands as maps
our anticipations as compass
of what we must become
to places of
the hearts
this is the irony:
we are still puppets on our
invisible strings
on purple clothes
we boast
we are on our own now
our feet
shamed by stones
who preferred
the dignity of their being
mute
in that silence of leaves
upon heaps
of those molds and moss
stories told....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem