The old poet
with his face full of lines,
with iambs jumping in his hair like fleas,
with all the revisions of his body
unsaying him,
walks to the podium.
He is about to tell us
how he came to this.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Gorgeous, absolute and pure beauty, not on the superficial surface, rather at the depth, the soul. It is wonderful to find a spirit alive, after years of living trying to kill it. Live on, forever old poet...