Shepherd, the sun tunes the forest poplars, and your lyre.
Rumours in the hills calm you, and a bright exotic bird charms you to a place of the blown candle were she said forever.
A precious jewell that travels the cosmos.
Your worship is no glory.
Your gallery is a laberinth to the abyss.
Temptation may not let me hear the music
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem