It is the development of senses,
From what is parallel to belief;
The contingent beliefs surprise us with
Their earth and loam, working like beliefs
Of faith that divide the earth and rocks.
My belief of the stations is great,
This devastating period of inaction
Has plain dealing, bluffing nobody
In its wake, like the valley which designs
Your spread, the grazing past.
What is your history of all nights?
The fairness of the conversation is bright,
We waste not, nor do we congeal in the end
But must report to those with penmanship,
The writers of the past reside in my head.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem