To go to the room of substance of mind,
I press and think to understand the alarm.
A white-washed wall is all I truly sign with my look,
My face changed expression into curious
Geometric progressions, for writing is all.
To go inside the blanket is to sleep and crawl
Into dreams of hurt, that enter the entire world;
I often do think which babe laid beside my fountain promise,
It seemed a nice clear-spoken child,
Full of worlds and cares of the mysterious legions.
The moon was lit on the cold horizon,
Felt by some to be the illustration of godly men,
Where dreams don't know the meaning
Behind a lie that works again in one's head,
Lies are surrendering to the whole doctor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem