If you ask the gender of a person he will reply
That the sky observes yourself as well as him or her.
Lift the face into the cosmos, with personal conjugations,
The conjunctiva is alight like the stars at our own night.
We are all men, of the night and of the day, the palaces
Are better than your slums, the freedom is a precious item.
We are all women, of the council and the court, the mansions
Seem best when obscure and vague, never vulgar, not at all.
The contracts bespeak in their own stanzas, their own wisdoms,
So then the fragrance of a god passes like the wand of success.
If you ask him why he is a man, he shall respond and internally
Interject, repose fully, and interrogate the wines in his parlour.
If you ask the women of the world what is explanatory,
They shall reply, and they shall comply, and they shall pray.
The questions are set in a book, in a tomb, in a palace of gold,
Where the hearkened priest, the besieged man fights for words.
His sermon is cloudy, misty, and mysterious in the ways of men,
You must argue with his counsel, he must complain to a soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem