A bottle of books seems to be drunk by men,
Losing is abusing, reading can keep flow;
Where words rescue, we understand simply
Like authentic tastes, the rallies of fortune.
The real boss of books is called the bible
Of the results, on Wednesday our uniform
Is dressed to wages, towards the harbour.
I sail out to the sea of urchins, beauty has met me;
Loathe me when I sink, and stutter my words
Of importance that I achieve, since it cancels me.
I can not read according to wisdom of books,
For my vocabulary rests, loiters and repairs the ills.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem