Throughout levels of participation we fume and fuss
when things don't turn out the way we want.
Recriminations banter within our mind's images,
never landing with any certainty on phases of truth
held in check by proverbs of old.
Withholding fantasy and mirrors of reflection from
our minds we will wither and die of neglect without
anyone noticing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem