Who are those men
whose voices loud in a room
of talkers pierce
through the general drone
of words going up
like smoke, becoming indistinct,
or like the buzz of bees,
a mere collective sound
whose words refuse to decompose like that
but, coarse with the husk of will,
remain distinct,
going out and pointing
a finger back to the speaker,
whose authority
becomes annoyance
to one with other business
or with no business at all,
only dreams?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem