There’s a wick,
To light these eyes,
Jauntier than streetlights, fertile bombast
The aurora sleeps suspended in dreams
If there is anything,
As sinful as hands, thy fledgling hands
Then that would be of ripe eyes,
Eyes of blatant lies and shameful candor
The eyes, tender with intentions,
Of desultory deceptions,
Liberated by the riddance of the peccadilloes
That are not exultant, they are somber in the dreadful presence
Of the specter that lurks,
Within the rancor inside the presumptuous superstition
And of course, the bedlam caused by assiduous sins that tinker disaster,
Display in pedestals, a havoc that cannot be tamed by adroit prayers
The voices inside eyes, and the conclusions
Are irrevocable unless abandoned by incredulous derision
By the tapestry hangs the plush verdant fields of leniency
Cradled by the cadence of exultant mauve lips and frothy tulips
Eyes, cleanse them in the rivers,
Purge them with the scythe of reapers
The contamination is insidious upon birth,
Should we try to be saintly sons of mirth?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem