in the poetry everything was already
goodbyes and salty tears
sad smiles and technicolour dreams
delicate touches and violent storms
they were also already and they had had its day
for soul desperate sighs
sorrows of the heart the other side of the life
love in reality and in the sleep
hate and peeping of
other people's properties think secretly
fulfilment and not
the blue of the sky weight of black clouds
roses storms birds butterflies
of it it was so much that today
the man is writing because
he has always written and still he wants
he knows at least about it that other
a long time ago already read it
but he is deluding himself
that what at one time
was being sent on other wave
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem