in our city they shoot fireworks again
as if to scratch God's navel
white seagulls coming from afar die over the roofs
with their beaks crisscrossed
with such cruelty
it rains softly
like you let the wine drop on the floor flowing by itself
when you barely incline your glass
autumn falls
upon the ground of this world
to you my God we have dedicated everything
people grow from bread
from people only bread remains
half of it forgotten in the church's altar
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
dedicate everything like god. Men are ignorant. They may be excused.