Rancid thoughts,
Chiming, with the head of a chimera
Resolute pictures in the vista, springing
Rousing the lines of heavy blood taints
It is in the wake of
The ambivalent weather have I first,
Wrote with my clenched fists and shunned eyes
The most insipid of all the lies in lines
Pure and chaste little fingers,
And pale nailbeds like cemeteries
They desire for the pen and paper,
Of which I shall render myself naked and vulnerable
Trampling long enough - Have I found, my greatest wife
Or perhaps, the acute life of an inverted terrain
In the motherly bosom of literature and pain,
That speaks clearly, reverberating in the grotesque chasm
In these words of trivial appearance,
And by the mere solstice of chance
Have I found my asylum, amid the searing and pommeling
Inside the crevasses of literature.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem