Neglecting the presence of choiceless
pain, I became singular and I said
I would not allow the life
slip through my fingers.
Looking inside, beneath the rags
of awakening, makes you to rebel
against the decadent forgiveness.
Belief in dying was a reversed nightmare.
Till the arteries explode in the limbs.
A robot kindles the hope to walk
without a brain and I grieve for the
death of a nightingale in the woods.
I will knead the invisible universe,
roll it to the stone wall of conscience.
Age will undo the million dreams
behind the creative shame.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
your delibate display of decadent verse, thickly layered, as a testament/tribute to your creativity, is not done out of shame; nor does it lend credence to ill repute - but rather exemplifies an honorable intuition and further validates that your moral standings are something to be revered. have missed reading! xxsjg ps- Is it your intention to throw us off with stoic indiscretion? Because it's not working ;)