Orange and yellow of disoriented skies, blending into
fictitious splendor of childhood.
Acres of knowing absolutely nothing, crawl around and
climb to backwoods of eternity.
Never stirring from beaten methods of tried and true
recipes for happiness, yet cannot participate in the
activities of exact hours or minutes.
Extracting life juices from intact metamorphoses,
surviving demure attacks of hopelessness.
There are so many varied thoughts in this world that
maybe we have no room for them all.
Whenever entities cannot co-exist, because of self-
hatred all of life is hurt by it.
Caretaking of existential good begins in hearts of one
and grows rapidly from then on.
Scaling sandwiched feelings, tightening inner portals of
rectitude, alone in portrayals of each decade of ignorant
pleading.
Descending forgotten ideas placed in tombs of time,
separately interred, forever under earth and sands alone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem