Textures mixing and blending with moods of many people's
rhythms, not holding back on any plains.
Leaving empty designs on the piles of yesterday's leaves,
having been raked, waiting for the essence of sensations.
Life is going to stay on the side of exits, awaiting the
making of entire patterns in one feel swoop.
Rushing into the future of another perfect storm, not
taking the effort, at a loss.
Capturing it on the front porches of tomorrow's periodicals.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem