Wringing your hands, with a cry
You fall into a trance of sleep-like
Autonomous creativity and it flows
Out of you like rain from clouds.
It is all eaten up by blank paper and
The word art feels like the warmest sigh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Its very textured it puts me in a very metalic mood, I like the movement of these words as they flow. Hypnotic :)