My conversion permeates through my being,
Solipsism shall be the thought for me;
Drooping from an attitude of cool nature,
The self is a puzzle for my own creation.
Like having arches of a door,
This self creates joy and dislike.
The real movement of this crazy life
Distends a wound on the readiness of souls.
My concerns are like the doorways,
Encyclical objects of thought.
The birth of bipeds resumes from the fore,
Their legs dangle once we are born.
In these gymnastics is an insolence,
One of the resonant sounds that apologize.
The captain of capsizing is afoot,
And the straddled human rights command a league.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem