A true poem is a thing of awe.
A true poem is a struggle unto death.
A true poem is another land
Where one sojourns
When one is past deaths door.
A true poem is made of words that linger on when all the others in one's life are washed away:
one single kernel,
but one from which can sprout
life all anew.
Stream then all over me
Arusubanya of the world.
Perhaps one day,one day,
my mouth will burst asunder
to utter but two words for simple souls
which,as they grow,will sprout ripe stars
which even now I am searching for.
