The one who slept
Was not the one
Who woke up
With a dream
That did not
Look like one
Fabricated like the others
In the fever of the night
This was a destination
Yet to get its name
A place, a hill rather
That had to be found
Climbed and conquered
A vision that signaled
A turnaround in the journey
Frenetic, restless, ritualistic, so far
On the beaten path
Under a merciless sun
This would be made all alone
But for the one, beside one
Scattering the darkness, before one
Till there was none, or just one
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem