It might not rhyme at the end

It might not rhyme at the end
But it might rhyme in the middle
Like skipping rope and games of tick
And games of puzzle and riddle

It might not match at the corners
It might be too long in the hem
But it might have a pocket of utter madness
That I’ll never find again

It might get tied up in a ships knot
Or escape me like a long silver blue fish
It might start with a complaint
And then it might end with a wish

It might tumble into the ocean waves
Without order or giving a sign
It might take with it a house or a town
An epoch, an era, a time

Visually it looks like a Celtic art
Yet it sounds awkward like a cobblestone cart
It may be a dream
It may be my heart

It may be for being together
It may be for being apart

Translation is

Translation is treacherous
In the hands of those
Who do not trust their own ears
Who like to impress
With their education

While the ordinary man
speaks with more
Than one garden of words
Whose everyday ingredients
Are imported into speech
From the world around him

Translational architectures
That build structures
Out of plain sentences
Spoken by forthright speakers
Who were speaking in plain terms
Have created new conversation
Out of other people’s minds