When we walk along a line,
The retreat is a loving gesture;
Inside we have entrails, only to love,
So that enticement reduces us.
Open the winning races,
Beginning is like ending,
I face the enemy with speed
As the next life queries us.
Lines and more lines produce
Internal doubt, for more shouting
Incites me to write a perfection,
One finds it again and again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem