They are like moments which speak and also utter,
Like momentum has taken tread and moments are desires,
Not lusts or rides of blessings, of blessed men and women.
So the reasoning of fantasy is obtuse and moments speak
Shoulders to moulds of the brain and eyes, I say.
Shoulders became heads and momentary disaster,
Suddenly a godlier experience of hatred and disgust.
More than this I have nothing to give but be forgiven.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem