Wait in the nervous thistles,
To cannibalize the vessels done with their
Studies in a wooden house,
Down from the slopes of jumping rope;
All the little books are little dollars
That can buy flowers and marionettes,
And it seems that the train vacillates the entire time,
Caracoling the gardens its mind undecided,
But not until the crepuscule you know opens up that
Letters are finally unsealed, and throats open up
Squeaking of mucus and disavowed marriage.
Song birds plead to their kittens for death,
Because in the soft darkness it is easiest to see who
I have become.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem