The sun is always in such same suite of clouds,
Fire, melting stone or burning air is grasping mind,
To be here, to hear a drip of chanting ashes,
I am in doubt,
Curiosity about your existence,
Might be fatal,
Sincerity is spreading,
Upon my heart it was a poison,
Deadly blood within a lash of the blackest bucket is real.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem