It does not matter what I write.
The featus of love in me will breath as it likes.
What concern or cause does it matter,
On how you interpret what you and me Made to utter.
Like a fool I wait for the spring which reigns in my being,
Refusing to understand it is born of the conspiracy of the universe unseen,
The one which hides in the warmth of your grasp,
In which I remain for ever clasped.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem