'It is written already.'
I heard the cry in the wilderness
and saw him on the tomb stone
where he took rest in black letters.
He lost his command
over the text where he wished to be.
I saw... Yes... I saw....
still they were playing.
' The interplay of signs, your greatness
never rests even the authors no more.'
I told them loudly.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Such a nice poem, Joby John. You may like to read my poem, Love And Iust. Thank you.