My ocean waits for me after it accelerates,
Flowers are aliens, amalgamating in me
As so much starch amputates the limbs of mine,
I donate this then to disorientate the few.
In this sense, a little passion is a woe to me,
Disintegrating our lives for it disassociates.
To dissipate like the sea, we elate the skies
As we evaluate the eliminations, the elongations.
I lubricate the flowers of the seed,
My luxury stands below me as a chip,
Imitating the wind of the ocean as it waits.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem