Cut and bleeding is my heart,
center of the village, always the inn, where the girl went, sold.
The loud laughter, under, above beneath the moon
which is not under the large storied dark cloudy sky.
The center of the little hurried girl, calling softly out.
licentiously which you deal, dancing a little as it goes by.
The wood how it shakes violently.
See the girl handle her hand,
like the anvil which strikes off the center is small.
How there are small those, see visa-vis the large sky, navigation
is by the stars, remember it is overcast dark and cloudy.
pink the sky, the center of the girl that is red, how it becomes
fingered dirty even more by your thoughts of,
and you see it.
Slowing,
Rolling down the window, pealing mine off, muffled, distant thunder.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem