And any way life happens
like with television, a led short-circuits
and you have to throw it away,
maybe to house a wooden cage
maybe to store medicines and hard liquor.
But this Sunday is so sweet
the pigeons on the slated roof
the leaves hang down to a threat of air,
we can forget about it, drag on till night,
go to bed later.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem