Driven by the wind, the flag points to the west.
Is that where an ancient treasure,
capable of redeeming the external debt,
lies hidden under glass shards? ,
or is it where miss death
with her beauty lures
old men into a trap?
The wind makes a pause
and the flag surrenders
to unheard voices claiming
that north is the best cardinal point.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem