actually it is all
about self talk
a self talking to yourself
which makes you wonder
how many selves do i have
as you face a cloud of
doubt, a shade of blues and
reds and blacks
and it may seem too
confusing until you get hold
of your hair and hands
holding on to your hands
and you feel discreetly
concretely what is here
what is left of you after
all the winds blow whatever
is not true, whatever is
consuming you
the bitter part is left
and all too enduring
all the sweetness of you
is gone, and you wonder
where to mix again, where
to start, how sweet is sweet
what sweet is sweet,
what past lives are.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem