I found a central apple tree, cold air stung the brisk
Light air, liking the best of times, losing the life.
My house had flowers of furniture, when the money
Of the distance surrounded me with people of time.
I found my tree when the cider flew in from the air,
The apples grew furiously due to time and its stay.
I offered some of us a growth sombre and sore,
The space of the sky rained with torrents and abhorrent
Light and water, faltering like the opposition or the liar.
Light air falls down in its quarrel, air is warmer when liars
Are near, with future dire life of an existence dying,
I found my apple tree when the bees died and lied.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem