anywhere i go
i write as though i am bound
to speak what
i have long kept as a garden
inside my heart
i have not yet spoken about
the flowers and the stones and the
sticks
but soon i will
and what you have heard so far is nothing
but the
sound of the river in the air
there is someone still who lives in the clouds
and never want to speak about it
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem