it is when air feels like
glass
which looks like a mirage
which flows like
rivers
which branches like hands
which touch no one and have
become
walls which
negate itself and turn
into a
sky
which regret not having become
birds
which
hate wings and flights
it is so crowded like a forest
and beneath are worms
eating
rotten wood
which has become more of
a boat which
wishes that it were nothing
but an
ordinary human coffin
which shall be buried
under the grass which
without change shall rule
the earth
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem