On the errors
that trasmutano the skin
in the as Barbarians to the assault
they invade
figureheads in the full essence
they count the fears
to stay so lonely
to be invoked
the harpoons in the breast
And the summer in the holidayers
and the South to the fiancées sirens
and mountains as breasts
crushed in the corsets
breast of empty too milk
breast pigeon
rooms
will come from there to paint little animals
crotchet
hook for pink and blue covers
Too much future
is larva of sense
but the voice it grows old the same
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem