Cold, wrought-iron thoughts filling many shelves inside
a mind.
Chilling to the core of bone, all manner of shaded
enlightenment is furtively carried on.
Swept and blown about to no avail, country whispers fall
on deaf ears, spoken by silent parted lips.
Novena-like prayers of thought are sent on invisible angel
wings towards heaven, hoping soon to be spent on happier
places of emptiness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem