I renounce a poem I have
written, with this poem I demolish
the subject of torment that follows
language. In the morning
the sun is bigger than us, who are at our best without artworks.
Let this similar poem be better than
the highest ideal of poetry existing in
language itself. Since all I have said
is partly their story and the last word
after that is: poetry. And now
the poet hopes for me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem