Sea bottom, the womb harboring night,
has given me more space than night
just before it groans and roars into a thunderstorm.
Just before I storm into myself, pricked by cold.
I'm cold. I'm clothed in diced ice.
Let me climb back to my world's deck.
Throw over the beaming flowers
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem