Awkward and hideous are coming out,
Glancing at their heads we design the remorse,
How well known is the period of lust?
Grotesque, learned moments are of the dust,
In the stars above, in those suns too near,
Licking the bones of our disciples who retrain
The senses,
Feeding hurt men with overwhelming tests,
Tests will reside in the hearts of prosperous
Roots, sickly are their designs.
Sensible men are relaxed due to memories
Guiding their trek across the heavens,
Finding and replacing strokes of currents,
Eddying through the cosmos.
A velvet blackness is surrounding them,
When men could hear a sickly rage.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem