The books o'er those
wrecked tables encompassed
by torn cagoule are my silo,
I encave my soul with their
powerful words.
Now speak sire, who do i master?
Did you not singe my tongue
your mark?
My every speech is clay.
And your every wish is a bird.
You speak with clouds
as if they were your sons,
Yet you fear blue birds
like all book worms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem