In longhand my life reveres the ideals,
Books and volumes are bizarre
Now that ideals fill the prisons
That are barred to the correct and right.
Be alive and keep the wolves,
Eerie conversations are adrift
With the sea at night that rages.
My obstinate relics are regulated by
The blood of the veins,
Enduring a heart that murmurs,
Drawing breath in small amounts
So that letters are words in some likeness.
Have life that revolves around the desert
So as to reignite the force of the dunes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem