Properties of intellectual pursuits fall into categories
left through interior rhythms.
Subjected to infinite episodes of liberty and freedom,
flying and soaring into the atmosphere.
Only a poet can find their way, as soliloquies form in
the yesterdays, present and tomorrows.
Selecting etudes and sonatas, figuring out equations
that soar into mathematical solutions.
Flying into depths of questioning answers as they appear
quietly on eastern horizons out of sight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem