They are so colloquial and well-spoken in
The dime stores of their echoes—
Until their ex teachers care to forget about them—
They become another antecedent that has no
Pronoun and lie just in another classroom above the
Earth—
The dirt is lucky not to have them—the housewives
Echo like the last delusions of fireworks above
The drainage—and then I am sure that they
Are going to sleep forever—
And the places that cannot keep them are just
Trade-offs for my parents' well-being—
But I will not forgive my wife, even if she bares my child—
Because this land is beautiful and it is open to
The interpretations of more than just one meaning.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem