We the paradisial sons of suns,
holdfast our lachrymose empress and plenty;
The perfectionist true.
Immolator of flawed jewels,
in place of abandon.
Who at desolate dominions,
endures,
renews.
And we, her sixth and most beloved child,
having not yet beheld her hunger,
choose the soft wind,
on faultless devices,
for posterity,
we pollinate upon billowed eurekas,
suffering her veracities through eyes inferno,
our will endures,
the human will endure,
And blind your pride-
sweet mother.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem