On a smooth slope we sleep,
Throats are in anguish,
As the dreaming is in concussion.
Some sleep in a bedroom of higher
Pleasure, also they have the bed.
On a gradual sea the welcoming
Has events in the main season,
Slopes are sacred due to gravity,
Open their light and travel further
Than the man at the dead-end.
It will be the fall of the century,
A smooth slope seems to be an
Accusation, of feeling and of effort.
One begets not, one beams on others
To refract the light, and reflect the sight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem