Common sense is the product of our nightmares,
Let it picture a picture, leave the mirror, and add
As well as subtract to the misery of Da Vinci.
Our arts are without aesthetics, as the stages
Of cages are assembling nuclei or barren brains.
My common cinema ends with tragic trances,
Common sense has entered the sacred sanctuary,
Like the priest of the old ways answering to perfection.
My jaws are acting on the punch of the century,
A wonderful game of pleasure and pain,
The realm of incidents to occupy a dancer.
This side of dawn is a cart of reality,
A real, real thinker of the ways ahead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem