At my lowest point, in mausoleums,
In skid rows, running from the law,
Or living the tramp/gypsy life, I felt a spark.
It did not burn to hurt nor devour me;
But it gave me a longing for wisdom
There was a lesson everywhere, warm comfort.
Even through the drudgery of jobs,
The rejection letters from editors,
Impaired relationships, a flame enthused me.
Some kind of fire inspired me to transcend
The conflicts and the broken bottles,
The dirty theater cruise, the ambulance,
From raising a tent on the outskirts of a city,
And, soon, setting up a bed in another -
I yearned, I desired to master something.
Washing my face in some public sink,
Seeing my broken smile in the broken mirror,
The measure is how much thick skin I developed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice write, powerful and ponderous