Choosing melodies of yesterday's tears of sadness,
developing insider news without effort.
Sending impulses into the atmosphere, hoping to see
them return ten-fold in desires of the heart.
So often, tending to the duties of life given by
other's selfish whims and jealousies.
Creating an environment of absolved creative uses
by inconsistencies of untold busy fortitude.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem