No view has endeavoured like the painting,
No bitter fruit combines with unripe apple,
And so it tastes complete, with sounds and words
Appalling like the winds of the fruity flavours.
Artists are eating toast with one hand,
Eating, teaching and innocently old if dared,
To be accosted in fairness which clings to bodies.
My fruit is simply for tasting, which has rights,
It combines strongly, with strings and knots.
Many derive pleasure from this same act,
May fruit cause the mind to be entangled
In all ropes and lesions, in all straight roads.
The road is narrow and long, long and short,
Incredibly boring, distasteful, and disunited.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem