We are blending a weight of things
With the height, and floating on ice.
It was blind, and he was also blind
Like a created being shrivelled by the souls of more,
He who owns his eyes is super and must be besotted with anger
And rage and wrath, also he angers me for being it.
Blind people watch the flame of the loving and liking,
Giving mortal strokes to the dead, and living an existence of verve.
Address him who lustfully fulfills God’s commandments,
The same person who does the same thing and the same trick.
I can not find another being so human, and so lovable
That maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem