The man erupts, and his soul departs,
Final illumination concerns the ammunition,
One mania is enough to bind and bend
The harder herald, his own socks cannot knock
Me aside, feeling foes of fame, seeing sentences
Of stray stories; my foes are like forces
With so much matter in the mind.
The man has a spar from heaven of weak water,
He enjoys his toy of baths and oceans,
Chooses his food furnaced from the kitchen
That fetches and catches the pheasants.
The woman damns the soldiers of her heart,
For losing this winning battle, of choosing
Who to cook, and who to embattle,
Like loss the food has been swallowed.
My stories are shared by the bears,
Growling and growing with causes,
Jeering the jumping lunatics of Menace,
That mildly molests us with war
And then peace.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem