The situation was the scene of scorching heat,
Its locale pondered, scorched like kindled candles,
Offering us whims of a superior future,
Its aspect was bound to the body offering me some
Of its lines so linear, returning to the origins
Of the seat this side of town.
My touchline offered a lie, a dying act,
Little doing was committed
As the king was perpetrating bending
Of the rules that followed.
The pole of criminality was surrounded by light,
A touchline passed meant these days of finding,
The hailstorm harnessed our reins of light,
From the scorching of the seething heat.
Let this snowfield be an enemy of the state,
The constraints are fiddling the arena of cold freezing,
The burning is about.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem