Accepting aloneness, incomplete solitude, imperfect
rest. The garden
wasted, pumpkin patch planted late, potatoes untasted
left in ground.
A thousand email addresses, each unique represents
a flame of
passion, compassion, desperation or depression. To
understand, to know's
impossible. It is therefore only reasonable to
observe the shadows
on the mountain, the actions of the dreamer which tell us
something,
little, nothing of his dream. It's a simple secret
shared,
longevity. The half breed John Russell says it right, the
date and place don't matter, dry desert or cold
mountainside,
lush bottomland, soulless or hospitable, contagious
hospital.
The best laugh's death's, a perfect escape, perfect
error, perfect
rest. Their solicitude's unnecessary, grief is temporary,
life goes on,
you go under, underemployed, the undertaker's
never unemployed.
Forensics prove an ovary with two chambers, ovule
adnate to the funicle.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem