Lines imprisoned on paper; black against white
set between guarded margins; ever searching for that light
tempted to jump in your mind and run free
if just to escape away for one night
polished or unsanded
lovely but unbranded
anything you imagine them to be
they wait to be seen
peeking through in black and blue
waiting to die in the flames
burn a book watch the words die
see the children cry
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem