In a glass room with a glass table
No one there
No orange meadows or vines
A place of perfect destitution
The wind is gone
The sea never speaks
Interrogation of a wry conscience
I sit on a glass chair
Wit in the glass basket
Time is a porcelain pen
Dreams the closed door
Moral inventory
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem