Cages have stages of dwindling pleasure,
My fixture is safer than all of the fixtures,
Inside one of the hats a rabbit runs tonight.
Without a reality of ounce, a rabbit can pounce,
Opening the young gates, offering the states
Of an animal of endeavour, in the deeds only.
Then words capture a soiled shirt,
The rigour of sight is honestly led,
Why do spaces fill with pains and decisions?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem