To cuddle and mention the verbal talk
Is when ignition has been contained,
Plumage matters then, and plumage spreads
Inside another demon that resounds in the head.
To be a sprite causes one to ignite,
Listing the praises of a certain god,
With future and past being the condition
Of a matter interesting like the day.
With a night my picture is painted,
The right tools employ the right way;
Without me a word seems futile,
Quitting the words of old seems penniless.
I feel along a ridge that bespeaks
In manners of the hearts and minds,
This devil has been a demon of sorts
But evil is still the felony of a generation.
My night is a swan now that you are gone,
My sight lingers inside the tongue of secrets,
Full of the godliness that resides in sides of a square,
The very square or shape of round stratosphere.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem