Flash in the pan, my tempestuous heart;
The art temporal composes your parts
While thinking you're dying, or that you might live,
Depends what significant others would give.
Little attractions, like swarms of gnats,
Emotional spasms of arterial attacks,
Visions of cherubs which bloom in your head;
But a flash in the pan and then boom- you're dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem