Eat the gourd of knowledge so as to create
A weapon of dispute, feelings are against you.
One weapon knows a selfish reason for thinking
Along deadly lines of force that swerve and serve.
Mister Gold is a lover of the night that nicely counts
Its bullets biting the innocence of a night in long circles.
Now you are a small cube of captaincy,
Buckwheat is your diet of the century,
You are the flakes of a plant, and eat the gourd.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem