Howling is an act of religion,
Beneath it is the urge to cry and be in a fog,
When flowers burst with fruit
And actions desire each other
To make a few mountains and mounts.
The future rings doorbells,
Feeling inside the prison cells
Like balloons rising,
Being blown across the waters
Of the Atlantic Ocean,
When suddenly or at once a land
Beams on us from nowhere.
It is the real authority to nevertheless
Be certain about.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem