Become Brittany, become botany, then balcony,
I am stranded in thoughts of company that delights.
The invasions were bunnies, seconds undermined us,
Minutes overplayed, as hours became staring stars.
The time of the year was the whole aspect of creations,
I whine and deliver my praise to the maximum speed.
This writing is too felonious to read, my writing is my thought,
It creates a toy, itself the war, itself the toy of raw pain.
My writers are working for my own lodgings of bricks and mortar,
To establish a house of a mansion we must pressurise the rise.
So come to a region that you love and adore in asking thoughts,
To arrive and approach the reality of a day and a night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem