Clumsy are hitting lamps
like night moths.
Matured drunks are falling down.
In the amusement park, wierd generals
in a little green skirts are making grimaces.
In the middle of a metropolis, the forest burns.
In the shell of whispering lips
you swim in a part of the story.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem