I clash with books, with words of enormous depth,
The meaning on the page is that of beauty.
I see fire in the whole of literature, the whole poison,
When information has a path, forming beauty.
My books are written with zeal, full of fervour,
Entirely exact, full of splendour, and rich.
This sea of bringing in has many problems
I need to crash into, into a lovely pudding.
The pudding is perfect as a sight or image,
The picture on the wall of my house.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem